The Potter Name
by Corilee
Summary: Harry's daughter gains the legacy of the Potter name, but finds there's more to being a celebrity than just a name
1. Abby's magic

"Abigail Mae Potter, you come down from there this instant!" November called wearily, resting her hands on her hips as she peered up into the tall oak tree. The sun played against the leaves at such an angle that she had to squint to see her bright-eyed, five-year-old daughter sitting high on a tree branch with her legs dangling over it. As a mother she feared the worst. The image of her lively child tumbling down from the tree caused her heart to leap into her throat, and she continued to yell up at her and demand she climb back down.

 "Em? What's going on?" her husband questioned, walking up to the scene that had captivated the attention of his family. November sighed deeply, a tone of giving up in her voice. He folded his strong, war-weary arms around her and she leaned her head back against his shoulder, finding the deepest sense of comfort in finally being back in his arms. Every year since his difficult but successful graduation from Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry some 11 or 12 years ago, Harry had gone off to join the fight against Lord Voldemort. For years upon years the entire wizarding world had hesitated at saying the name, its owner too cruel and heartless to think about without shivering. For years he had remained powerless, from the time Harry was just under a year old until he was about 14. Voldemort regained his power slowly that year, and in November and Harry's final year at Hogwarts his power began to take its toll on the Ministry of Magic itself. It was then when Albus Dumbledore, easily the strongest and most powerful Phoenix ("Order of the Phoenix" was the name the wizards against Voldemort had given themselves) in England (if not the world), opened the struggle to wizards everywhere and invited them all to join the fight. Harry felt he owed it to his parents, who had been killed by Voldemort himself, to take a major role in the fight so that their deaths, which had been caused while they were trying to protect him, would not have been in vain. November could understand how he felt, having lost her own Muggle parents in a car accident just before her third birthday. Nonetheless, she hated it when he was away fighting and relished in every moment they spent together.

"It's Abby," she told him, still staring up at the towering oak. "She's gotten herself stuck up a tree." He chuckled softly, his chest rising and falling gently beneath her hand, which rested on his heart. She couldn't possibly understand what was so amusing about their five-year-old daughter sitting precariously 20 feet in the air. Then again, Harry always _did _tend to make the best of a bad situation.

 'Well, at least she's finally starting to show signs of magic," he said, pressing the inner edge of his hand against his forehead and glancing up into the tree. "I have to admit, I was starting to wonder." _But she's five years old! _ November thought in protest. She didn't think Abby would show any signs of magic until she was eight or nine years old. Lord only knew _she _had been all-Muggle until her 10th birthday, and she had been raised by wizards. Then again, Abby's father had proved his magical background from the time he was born, and he had been in the opposite situation as November's: born of wizards and raised by Muggles. Of course, Abby's father was no ordinary wizard. 

 "Oh Harry," she said with another deep-rooted sigh, "I suppose she _is _her father's daughter, after all." The two shared a private laugh. It was clear Abby was following in her father's footsteps the moment she had learned to speak. Her very first word had been "Voldemort". Wizards weren't nearly as apprehensive to say the name as they had been many years before, but November and Harry still felt obliged to lie about their daughter's first word. Harry hugged her close, sensing her fear of the situation.

"If that's so, then I suggest we get up there with her," he said, his voice still laced with humor. "It's the only way she'll come back down." November knew he was right, of course. He _had _to be. Standing at the base of the tree shouting at her had gotten her nowhere. She had a terrible fear of heights, but knowing what was best for her daughter she drew herself away from Harry and reached inside her pocket for her wand.

Harry placed his hand on hers to stop her, shaking his head. She looked up, questioning his reasoning. His electric green eyes twinkled mischievously. It was the same look he used to get when they were kids and he and Ron used to plot to sneak out of school to see Hagrid, or gain revenge from their childhood enemy Draco Malfoy. It was the look she and Hermione used to dread because it meant they would be sneaking out of or around the castle, breaking a hundred school rules in the process. 

"If she's her father's daughter, we'd better climb up there ourselves," he said, motioning for her to put away her wand. "Without magic." She couldn't believe what she was hearing, but left her wand in her pocket nonetheless. She tended to trust her husband's judgment to be better than her own, but she couldn't help wondering why he didn't want to use magic. After all, they weren't underage wizards anymore. It was perfectly legal, and in this part of London it was perfectly normal.

"Harry, I…oh, it's been so long since I climbed a tree! I know my parents were Muggles, but I've been around wizards my whole life. Climbing trees…god, I haven't done that since I was Abby's age. I don't even know if I remember how," she protested. But it was too late; he was already at the trunk, sizing up the tall oak. He turned around and flashed her a warm smile.

"That's all right. I used to do this all the time. It was the only way I could escape from my cousin Dudley, since he was far too pudgy to climb up after me. Come on, I'll show you." He extended a rough, callused hand in her direction. He wiggled his fingers in eager anticipation. She hesitated. Was it safe to climb up such a tall tree without the use of magic? Then she realized: he needed this. He needed to absorb himself in the childhood innocence he had never really had the chance to have, especially lately. Since he was 11 years old he'd been expected to act much older than he really was. He had to deal with the sorts of things 11-year-old wizards just didn't deal with. He had very few opportunities to delve into his youth. She had to put his interests before her own. Swallowing hard, she stepped towards him and placed her hands in his.

Before she knew what was happening, Harry had swept himself up onto the lowest tree branch and was beckoning for her to follow. He offered both hands out to her, his eyes shining more than ever. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and grasped an unbearably tight hold of his hands. He didn't complain; he simply gave a sharp tug and helped her onto the branch on which he was now perched. She scratched her feet a bit at the tree and struggled to find her footing, but soon enough she was crouching tip-toe on the same branch as Harry. She paused to catch her breath.

"That wasn't so bad," she told him, pushing her own midnight-black, tight curly hair from her chocolate brown eyes. "Quite invigorating, actually. Come on, let's keep going." Harry laughed softly at this wife's newfound sense of enthusiasm. Tree climbing had always been something he did when he wanted to be alone. It had never crossed his mind that anybody might have never done it before. Shaking his head in amusement, he followed close behind.

Slowly but surely the young couple ascended, climbing dizzyingly higher as they approached the young Abby. During the course of their climb Harry had managed to pass November by a couple of branches, and it became a sort of sport to see who would reach Abby first. Finally, breathless and beet red, November pulled herself up to a tree branch some 30 feet off the ground.

"Mommy!" a small voice exclaimed. Suddenly the height was the last thing on her mind. She wrapped her legs around the thick, heavy tree limb and scooted herself toward its middle. There sat her daughter, looking quite pleased with herself for getting up so dangerously high. Her stick straight, jet black hair floated in the warm summer breeze, and the bright green eyes she had inherited from her father watched the scene unfold before in playful curiosity. November couldn't imagine how anyone would actually be _pleased _to be up so high, least of all a five-year-old girl. _She really _is_ just like her father_, she thought, inching closer. Forcing her gaze away from the ground that felt miles away, she sat herself comfortably beside Abby and gave her a fierce hug.

"Abby Mae, don't you _ever _scare me like that again," she said, too relieved to see her child safe and sound to even think about delivering punishment. On her other side, her left side farthest from the base of the tree, Harry was just swinging up onto the branch. Where it had taken her a few minutes to pull herself up, Harry was climbing with ease. He grabbed hold of the branch above him, pulled his entire upper body up, hooked one leg over the side and then the other, and gave a small grunt as he steadied himself next to Abby. November couldn't tear her eyes away from him. She had known him for years, and he still never ceased to amaze her.

 "Oh Mom, relax," Harry said, giving her a quick wink. "I'm sure she didn't mean to, did you, sweetheart?" He ruffled her hair endearingly and she giggled. Angry as she was, November couldn't resist smiling at this. Abby truly was growing up to be just like him. She had already inherited his untidy black hair, brilliant green eyes, and deep-rooted hunger for adventure. It caused a very strong bond between her and her father that was impossible to break. Granted, she _did _obtain a few things from her mother, such as her overall shy manner and soft Spanish accent (along with quite a few Spanish words), but for the most part she was a young, feminine version of Harry. The special bond between daughter and father was one November enjoyed watching and refused to break. 

Abby shook her head. "Unh-uh, Daddy. I was just playin' outside 'n Hugh walked by 'n he started making fun 'a me. He was bein' really mean so I came out here…all of a sudden I was up here." Harry turned and lifted an eyebrow at November, who nodded knowingly. Young witches and wizards who hadn't learned to properly channel their abilities were known to do strange things they couldn't explain when they were angry or upset. It was obvious Abby had been upset. Hugh Turner was the son of Michael Turner, a man a little older than Harry who had been imprisoned by the Ministry of Magic for being a spy for Voldemort's Death Eaters. The Turner family was also right next door to the Potters. It seemed Hugh was becoming for Abby what Draco Malfoy had been for Harry back in Hogwarts. November shivered at the thought. Draco was a dark wizard now, fighting side by side with his father, a Death Eater. During his journey deep into the Dark Arts he had made Harry's life miserable, and forced him to face things more experienced wizards than he had never dreamed of facing. November prayed Hugh would do nothing of the sort for her Abby.


	2. Childhood

*6 years later*

           Harry eased back into the couch, sipping quietly at the cup of tea that had just been handed to him. His heart was full of comfort and warmth, and he couldn't remember the last time he'd felt so relaxed. Finally, he was back with his friends, back where he felt he truly belonged. He loved his family more than anything in the world, but there was something about being with the people who had watched him grow up that was positively magical. It felt like ages since he'd seen Ron and Hermione, his childhood friends from Hogwarts. The Potters and the Finnigans (the family Hermione had married into) visited the Weasleys as often as they could, but it was difficult for Harry to be with his family, let alone his friends. He was constantly being called off for some anti-Death Eater assignment the Ministry of Magic liked to send him on. Today, though, a warm day in late July, he was finally able to get together with everyone who meant the most to him.

"Pity about McGonagall, isn't it?" Hermione asked conversationally, sitting in a big, red armchair by the couch. "I mean, with her retiring and all. Oh Ron, don't look at me that way! I _know _it happened a few years ago, but I doubt Harry knew about it. He's been doing so much for the Ministry, I wonder if he even knows what day it is." With that she shot a look toward Harry, searching for support. He smiled. He had known about Professor McGonagall's retirement from Hogwarts through Dumbledore, but Hermione hadn't had the opportunity to discuss her new position with him yet and he knew she was just trying to lead up to that. 

"You're right, sometimes I _do _get a bit preoccupied," he replied. "And Dumbledore told me all about her retirement. He also told me all about the new Transfiguration teacher he hired three years ago. Very smart, extremely witty, noticeably attractive…he said he knew since her early days at school that she would make an excellent teacher for Hogwarts." Beneath a mop of curly brunette Hermione's face glowed a brilliant pink shade.

"Harry, stop," she told him, though it was obvious she was pleased by his compliments. "I may be smart by book-learning, but you're just about the bravest wizard there is. Everyone knows that once Dumbledore returns to Hogwarts, you're the one the Ministry relies on the most to lead the fight against…against Voldemort. It's been like that for years. The only reason some of us feel safe in bed at night is because we know you and Dumbledore are defending us." Once she had finished listing off her own compliments (all of which she felt were true), she sighed contentedly and settled herself back into the original topic of discussion. Meanwhile, the back of Harry's ears had developed their own shade of rosy red.

"Imagine me, a Transfiguration teacher!" she continued. "Of course, I'll never be what Minerva was…it still feels so strange to call all the teachers by their first names. I still can't call Snape 'Severus'. The man gives me the creeps, and I work with him!"

"Professor Snape? Is that old bloke still teaching?" Ron asked from his seat on the couch across from the one Harry and November had taken. Harry laughed quietly to himself. Snape had been their Potions teacher back in Hogwarts, and had given him more than enough trouble to keep him on his toes. Of course, he was key to the fight against Voldemort now, and though he was often still bitterly cold toward Harry the two had learned to tolerate each other. Years ago Dumbledore had sworn them to a truce, and neither had gone back on it. It turned out one of the reasons (among many, several of which Harry knew nothing about) he had been so cold when Harry was young was because he knew Voldemort would return to power. He knew Harry would be expected to fight against him. He knew what his best defenses would be if that were to happen, and he knew he had to make the young man practice those defenses without letting on that he was training. It was also one of the reasons he had been secretly after a position teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts, which, unbeknownst to him, hadn't been so secret after all. In a way Harry almost appreciated it.

"Ron, he's really not that bad, once you get to know him. Well, not really…sort of…all right, all right, he hasn't changed since we were kids. Not much, anyway. But Dumbledore must think he's all right if he lets him teach," Harry pointed out. Ron simply rolled his eyes, but Hermione nodded in agreement from behind her teacup. November curled up closer to Harry, leaned her head on his shoulder, and refused to speak. She had never had Potions class with any of them-including Seamus, Hermione's husband-nor had she seen how "terrible" he had been to Harry. She agreed that he was a very cold person, but hadn't had the experiences the three of them had had and couldn't judge him based on that. 

"It _is _a bit odd, though, teaching my own daughter," Hermione said knowingly, placing her cup back on the coffee table. "Hannah's going into her third year this year. Paul's only just starting; he got his owl yesterday. We're going into Diagon Alley next week to get his things. Abby's just about Paul's age. Has she gotten a letter from Hogwarts just yet?" Harry and November looked at each other. Their main focus of thought for the past couple days was suddenly being brought to an open table. Harry's brilliant green eyes searched November's. Was it all right to tell their closest friends what they had been thinking? He read a yes; it would be best if they received some input about their situation. Being a couple as young as they were, he was right on with his reading.

"Abby got her letter a few days ago," November explained, playing nervously with her cup. She stared deeply into the tannish-colored swirls that swam inside, as thought what she wanted to say lay hidden inside. "We're just…not too sure we want to let her go. We understand it's the best wizarding school in all of Europe next to Beauxbatons-in fact, it's the only one. And with Dumbledore we're sure she'll be safe and comfortable. That's not the problem. It's…it's Harry. _You _know how bad it was for him in school; famous for something he didn't do and couldn't remember. He's been a celebrity since he was barely a year old. Now he has reason to be known. He's practically as well known as Dumbledore himself, what with all he's done for the Order and all. I know, hon, I don't mean to embarrass you but it's true. And Abby? Daughter of the famous Harry Potter? Imagine all she'd have to put up with because of her father! I just don't know if she can handle it." 

The six parents were quietly lost in thought for a moment. The only sound in the room was that of Abby and Paul's excited laughter from outside as they played together in the warm sunshine. November had an excellent point. What _would _life at Hogwarts be for the daughter of Harry Potter? Hermione hadn't realized that when she'd asked her innocent question, and couldn't help feeling a bit guilty about it. Finally Seamus, who was seated beside Ron on the side closest to his wife, spoke.

"True, it may be a bit difficult for her, but what other options do you have? Do you honestly think you can give her private training at home? I know they say experience is the best teacher, but she's certainly not prepared for the sort of Dark magic you two deal with every day. Besides, as you said, Dumbledore will be there. Harry, haven't you said Dumbledore helped you keep your modesty while you were there? He didn't let it go to your head nor anyone else's. Well, except Malfoy of course, but look where he is now. You had to work just as hard as everyone else, maybe a bit harder because you were raised by Muggles. I'm sure he and everyone else on staff will treat Abby the same way they treated you."

He made another good point, but Harry still wasn't too sure it was a good idea. He knew what it was like to be suddenly thrust into the limelight of fame for something he'd had no control over. The only reason he'd survived Voldemort's killing curse (which had been and still was his main claim to fame) was because his mother had died to save him. He'd been too young to do a thing. He certainly didn't want his daughter to have to go through that; burdened by an accomplishment she'd had no hand in achieving.

"He's right, you know," Mandy spoke up for the first time since Hermione's opening line. She had been a Ravenclaw, a year younger than Ron, when the two had first met. She was very shy and soft-spoken then, and even now she was still a bit quiet, especially around Harry. When she was much younger she'd had a bit of a childhood crush on him, but as the years went on she began to fancy Ron and Harry became more of a hero figure to her. "I mean, we all knew you were famous, but for the most part the teachers kept us from making too big a deal of it. Abby will be just fine at Hogwarts, you'll see."

November allowed her friends' advice to play freely in her mind. It didn't seem like a terrible idea anymore when they put it that way. And the Headmaster _was _a very skilled individual…She placed her hand on Harry's and gazed up at him, trying to read his thoughts. Was he thinking any of the same things she was? A look of relent flittered across his face for a brief instant at the look his wife gave him.

"I don't doubt her safety there; I just wonder…well all right, if you all think it's best for her to go…I suppose Em and I can't really teach her everything ourselves. The most we could give her are a few lessons in Defense Against the Dark Arts, and there's no way an 11-year-old child can handle those sorts of lessons…"

"Is that so?" Hermione asked, a sparkle in her warm brown eyes and a smile across her face. "And exactly how old were you the first time you fought Voldemort?" Harry simple made a face at her at her reference to their first year at school. It was less than the adult thing to do, but since they were talking about their old days an immature response seemed the most appropriate one. Ron took a final drink from his cup and set it down purposefully on the table.

"Right then, it's decided. Hermione will be taking Paul and Hannah to Diagon Alley next week, and you two will bring Abby-that is, of course, if the Ministry actually lets you get away for a day, Harry. Goodness, my father must be working you to death. I apologize for that. In any case, Mandy and I will tag along with you guys when you go, just to get out of the house a big. The Magical Corral-you know, that pet store down at Hogsmeade?-doesn't need us for another couple days after that either, so Hermione and Seamus, if you need anyone to watch the kids we're available.

"Anyway," he continued, sitting up a bit straighter and turning so that he could search for something behind the couch, "I know your birthday's tomorrow, Harry, so I picked up something for you last week. My brothers insisted I get you something from Zonko's. Would you believe Fred and George are still hung up on that joke shop? I swear, sometimes I think they visit it in their sleep. Still, I thought you might enjoy this a little more."

He finally found what he'd been looking for and pulled it out. It was a long, slender box, slightly taller than Ron and about as thick as the tree branch Harry and Abby used to sit together on. It was beautifully gift-wrapped in red and gold paper that shimmered in the pale lamplight. _Our old House colors, _Harry thought wistfully as Ron dropped the package on his lap. He went on to thank his friend for the gracious gift, having nearly forgotten his own birthday. Hermione was more right that she knew about his crazy schedule. He could still remember the days when he used to count down the seconds at night until his birthday. Now here he was, married with a daughter and about to turn 34. Life was crazy like that sometimes.

He unwrapped the box carefully, wondering what on earth could be inside. Whatever it was, it sure didn't seem to weigh too much. Once the paper was all off, he slipped the cover off and gasped. The surprise brought tears springing to his eyes. There, lying in the box beneath a mountain of tissue paper was a brand new broomstick. The word "Windcatcher" was written neatly on the handle in gold print, and the broom flew easily into his hands.

"They're the latest make and model, much like the Firebolt was for its time. We all pitched in and helped pay for it, so it's really a gift from all of us. November said it's been quite some time since she's seen you on a broomstick. It seemed an excellent tribute to the old days, back when were in school. Remember? You were our House Seeker, won so many games against Malfoy and his Slytherin team it was wonder they even bothered to play. You used to say that when you grew up you wanted to go play Quidditch for England. It was your dream. We figured we couldn't let you let go of that so easily."

Harry remembered all right. Holding the broomstick here in his hands brought him back to his days as Gryffindor House Seeker. His favorite thing to do was climb on his broom and soar into the sky, far away from the Quidditch game, far away from everything. All those long hours training in the warm spring sun, the light wind brushing past his face as he flew, the glorious feeling of being the deciding factor of the entire game…When he played Quidditch, for the first time in his life he'd felt like somebody. He felt like he belonged.

He closed his eyes against the wave of emotions that threatened to break through in the form of tears. "Thank you," he said with a broken voice. "I'd almost forgotten. In all the confusion I've forgotten how good it felt to play."


	3. The mark of the Phoenix

            "Um…Dad?" Abby asked softly, clutching tightly to the grubby ticket in her hand.  She'd been so excited about finally going to Hogwarts, the school she'd heard so much about, that she kept checking her ticket to be sure she was really and truly going.  It had been that way since she'd gotten her ticket over the summer.  "I-I don't understand…I see a 9, and I see a 10, but where's platform nine and three-quarters?"  She had checked her ticket so many time she knew her platform number by heart.  

            Harry laughed purely from the memory of his own experiences with the wizard barrier.  He'd had to stop and question a complete stranger, which had been a very big deal to a quiet, shy, soft-spoken little boy of 11 years.  Of course, if he hadn't approached Mrs. Weasley, he and Ron might have never met.  Abby saw the distant look on her father's face and half-wished her mother were there.  Her dad, she had learned over the years, had a habit of falling wistfully into daydreams of his memory.  She gave his shirtsleeve a fierce tug to bring him back into reality.  He shook his head as though coming from someplace deep inside himself.  She shot him a quick look of impatience.

            "Oh…oh right.  Yes, well, you see that brick barrier there, between nine and ten?" he asked, bending down a bit to her eye level and pointing in front of him.  "Just walk straight through there.  Walk right into it and don't stop; keep going ahead until you see the train station.  Would you like me to walk in with you?"

            She turned to face him so quickly her hair whipped across her eyes and nearly left a mark.  "No!  I mean, I really don't think you have to.  I've heard so much about Hogwarts from you and Mom that I practically know the place by heart."  It was, of course, only half the truth.  In reality she was growing tired of her dad holding her hand through everything.  She'd overheard his debate over sending her to school, and it angered her.  How could he think that of her?  He wasn't God, and she wasn't Jesus.  He acted like he was God's gift to the world or something.  She wouldn't be able to pay attention because everyone would bother her about _his _fame.  It was complete nonsense to her, and besides, even if it _were _true, it wasn't like she couldn't take of herself.  She was getting a bit tired of him insisting that he go with her everywhere to watch every move she made.  When they went shopping for school supplies it was all she could do to convince him she could go into the Apothecary on her own.  He seemed stuck on the idea that Voldemort himself had the main goal in mind of killing her and only her.

            Still, the crestfallen look on her father's face made her feel guilty about turning her back on him.  "It's okay Dad; I'll still make sure to write and all," she told him, giving him a bright smile.  "Besides, I've got Paul.  He'll look out for me."  Harry looked down and smiled at her.  _Such youthful enthusiasm, _he thought.  _I remember being that way.  _Abby had the same adventurous gleam in her eye that he used to have when he used to go searching for Dark wizards inside the school.

            "All right Abby," he said with a sigh.  She was his little girl.  The last thing he wanted was to let her go off to school for a year.  "You behave, all right?  I don't want to hear about you blowing up any teachers or anything.  And trust me, I _will _hear _everything _from Dumbledore, so you watch yourself."

            She watched him give her the lecture, and struggled not to burst out into laughter.  It was obvious that, as stern as he wanted to be, there was a certain amount of sparkle to his eyes that showed he hadn't quite been the most well behaved first year when he was in school.  It was clear he half-wanted to try the things he was telling her not to do.  Besides, he knew she was entirely too quiet to even so much as talk back to a teacher.

            "Okay Dad, I'll try my best," she told him, quickly tossing her arms around his neck.  "Paul's waiting for me.  He's saving me a seat on the train."  It was rounding 11:00 now and she didn't want to miss her only way of getting to Hogwarts.  It was nice to help her father reminisce about the "good old days", but she didn't want to listen to it forever.  She grabbed her trolley of belongings and turned for the barrier; thankful she would be away from home, at least until Christmas.  

            "Have fun, Abby!" Harry called after her as she walked toward the layer of brick.  She disappeared into it, and he couldn't help but sigh.  It felt like only yesterday he and Hagrid had made their first journey into Hogwarts together.  He remembered just how frightened and alone he'd felt when he first boarded the train.  By the end of the day he'd had two new friends and never felt so happy in his life.  Now here he was, dropping his daughter off at the station for her own first day.  He hoped she would have as a start as he'd had.  In a way, part of him wanted to go along with her.

            Abby winced as she walked into the barrier.  Something just didn't feel right about walking straight into a brick wall.  She braced herself for the impact, murmuring "ay, Dios mio" beneath her breath…but it never came.  Instead, she stopped and opened her eyes.  She was in a whole new train station, staring face-to-face with a beautifully clean engine with the words "Hogwarts Express" written in big, bold letters across the front.  A sign swinging above her confirmed the fact that she was, indeed, at Platform Nine and Three-Quarters.  She realized that she'd been holding her breath and quickly released it.

            "Abby!  Over here!" called a familiar voice in the distance.  Glad for some company, she wheeled her things over in the direction of the voice.  There, standing by the engine, was her best friend Paul Finnigan.  His chin-length, sandy blond hair danced in the warm summer breeze, and his bright blue eyes glittered in anticipation of her arrival.  He was smiling and motioning for her to get on the train.

            "Come on, we're gonna be late," he called hurriedly, running toward her and grabbing her luggage.  She felt as though a hurricane of activity had just passed her and disappeared into the car.  She paused for a moment, caught off-guard, and just laughed.  What else could she do?  She was escaping her parent's reign for a full year, going to a school that taught the ancient craft of magic, and spending four straight months with her best friend in the world.  To tell the truth, her laughter was more of relief and excitement than anything else.  Giving a dreamy sigh that sensed of anticipation for the coming term, she lifted herself up onto the train and began her search for Paul.

            Just as both her feet had cleared the ground, the engine gave a start.  She was jostled back for a moment, then regained her balance and headed in the direction of Paul's very loud, quite distinctive voice.  She felt her way along the small walkway with one hand planted firmly against the inner wall, and ducked into the car it was more than obvious Paul had gone into.  

            He sat lengthwise across one of the bench-like seats, his back to the window and his knees nearly drawn up to his chest.  Well, one was, anyway.  The leg farthest from the backing of the bench was dropped down to the floor, and he'd wrapped both arms around his other knee.  All in all, he looked very comfortable and at ease.  Then again, he also had an older sister who went to the school.  He probably already knew half the first years in Hogwarts.

            "Come on Abs, you going to stand there all day or come sit with me?" he teased, motioning toward the empty seat opposite him.  She nervously tucked a lock of her waist-length, silky straight black hair back behind her ear and sat herself comfortably down on the cushioned seat.  Just as Paul was easily comfortable in any situation, so she was shy.  She felt a bit more at ease around him, though, since he was practically her brother and she had known him her whole life.

            His eyes followed her as she sat, his eyebrows furrowed in wondering thought.  He dropped both feet to the floor and sat directly facing her, leaning forward slightly and staring with intrigue at her forehead.  She shifted uncomfortably at this strange sort of examination.  Finally he spoke to explain himself.

            "Move your hair again…there, that bit over your right eye," he urged.  She gave him a puzzled look but did as he asked, brushing away the loose strands above her eyes.  He leaned in more and moved it away with a few more brushes of his own fingertips.  She couldn't help feeling as though he was some sort of archaeologist, searching delicately for treasure buried beneath the sand of her hair.

            "Huh.  Never noticed that before…'suppose your hair was too long for me to see it.  You've got a trace of the Phoenix mark.  If I'm not mistaken it's in the same place as your dad's, but much fainter."  She breathed a sigh of relief at the comment.  _Is that all?_  she thought, settling her hair back where it belonged.  She'd thought she'd accidentally nicked herself or something.  She laughed softly as he sat back in his seat again.

            "Oh that.  Yeah, I've had that since before I can remember.  At first I thought it was just a birthmark, but then my mum started telling me I got it in some sort of accident.  She wouldn't tell me what, though.  I never really bothered to care too much.  Then I noticed my dad had one just like it.  I mean, it was hard not to notice, what with the Order adopting it as theirs and all.  He told me quite honestly that he'd gotten his scar from being the only one to ever survive the Killing Curse of Voldemort.  I asked if I got mine the same way, but he just smiled and said no…you don't suppose he's lying, do you?"  

            Abby had never given much though to the jagged mark above her eye.  It was thin enough to have been drawn on with a very sharp pencil, and was usually hidden by her lengthy hair.  Sometimes it even disappeared completely, only to reappear every so often.  It had reappeared once as thick as her father's, and she'd deeply resented it because it marked her as a Potter.  She loved her family, but sometimes wished she wasn't related in any way to "Harry Potter, Muggle savior and wizard warrior".

            Paul lifted an eyebrow at her in doubt.  "Your father?  Lie?  I doubt it.  Your mum was probably right; it's probably just a birthmark.  Odd birthmark, though…well, let's forget it and go get something to eat, all right?"  


	4. Gryffindor vs. Slytherin: The Sorting

There was an uneasy murmuring among the first year students as Professor Sands led them into the school's Great Hall. He was a considerably new teacher, having been hired to teach Muggle Studies some nine or ten years ago. He was new enough to have retained his youthful charisma in his teaching, but old enough to rise to the rank of Deputy Headmaster shortly after McGonagall's retirement. He had cropped brown hair, light brown eyes, and a facial expression that always said exactly what mood he was in. He was also rather tall and hung above the students in a way that could only be described as "knowledgeable". From his friendly but firm face to the callused hands he held folded behind his back, it was clear he knew what he was doing.

Abby had heard enough stories about the Great Hall to last a lifetime, but she couldn't help shivering at the marvel of finally seeing it for herself. She wasn't the only one. The steps of everyone in the group slowed significantly as they gazed around in awe. The ceiling, bewitched to look like the sky outside, was a pleasant blue with scattered, stretched cotton balls of clouds. All around them were rows and rows of lit candles that hovered high above their heads. Four tables – one for each House, she had learned – led up to the grand teacher's table across the front. Right away she knew which table was Slytherin, because to her left she could hear Hugh Turner (who had become a Slytherin the year before) chanting,

"Abigail Potter

What a monster

When Daddy's here she has nothing to fear

Potter, Potter

What a bother

When Daddy's away she has nothing to say."

Deeply hurt but struggling not to show it, she held her head up high and tried to ignore the group that had joined him in his song. He had been taunting her for years, but it never ceased to hurt her. _It's that stupid scar, _she thought. She had pulled her hair back on the train because it was getting in her eyes. Now she reached back and tugged the elastic from her hair. Jet-black and stick straight, it spilt past her shoulders and down her back. It also hid a large portion of her forehead, including just above her eyes. 

The group of first years, still murmuring among themselves, stopped and faced the teacher's table. Dumbledore, Headmaster and family friend to Abby, sat in the direct center in the grandest seat of all the staff. Their eyes met, and she could have sworn she saw him wink at her from beneath his half-moon-shaped spectacles. She smiled back. With him in charge, she felt thoroughly safe and protected.

Everyone craned to catch a glimpse of Professor Sands, who was now bringing a stool to the front of the table. Perched atop the stool was a visibly aged, worn, and dusty wizard's hat. Next to it was a rolled-up bit of parchment. As the students bumped and thumped into each other, Abby found herself shoved a bit by one particular student next to her.

"A hat? How's that supposed to sort us out?" the student questioned, apparently to Abby. She turned to deliver an answer, but found herself unable to speak once she did. The student was a young boy, not much older than her but a few inches taller. He had ear-length black hair of the same shade as hers, and the most piercing blue eyes she had ever seen. He had a lanky figure but came off very casual and sure of himself. His attractiveness made her freeze and caught her words in her throat. He flashed her a warm smile.

"I guess some of us need more than a hat to be sorted out. I'm sorry; I'm Elijah Young," he said, giving her a proper introduction. "And you would be…caught off-guard?"

She laughed quietly to herself at her inability to speak. "A little, yes. My name's Abigail Potter, but my friends just call me Abby." He nodded in acknowledgment, and she braced herself for some sort of comment on her last name. Any time she introduced herself, the reply was almost always the same: "Oh, so _you're _the Potter girl" or "Ah, another Potter, eh? You've got a lot to live up to, you know." But right from the start Elijah was different. 

"Abby, huh?" he said, still smiling. "Beautiful name. It matches your eyes." Beautiful? That was certainly a new one. She'd been called nice before…and attractive…and her parents always said that she was pretty. But beautiful? To hear such a good-looking person call her beautiful lit up her eyes and swelled her heart to bursting. She couldn't help even turning a light red hue at the compliment. And all this without regarding her background…it made her feel genuinely good about herself, and that was more that anyone had done in a very long time. 

"Thank you," she said softly. "I like your name, too. Reminds me of home." She couldn't put her finger on it exactly, but there was something intriguingly mysterious about this character. At the same time he also seemed oddly familiar. As Professor Sands unraveled the scroll to call students up to be sorted, the two began to strike up a lively conversation. Elijah seemed intent on talking with Abby, and she couldn't say she minded the attention. Although she was usually quiet by nature, he helped her warm up to him by asking questions that couldn't be answered shortly.

"Cassandra Gayle," Professor Sands called. A sandy-haired young girl headed up to the stool. Abby tried to keep an eye on the sorting while she talked, but Elijah was too interesting for her to turn away from. Vaguely in the background she heard the hat declare Cassandra a Hufflepuff.

"So tell me about your family," asked Elijah casually. "Are your parents Muggles, or are you a pure-blood, or are you half-and-half?" She turned to him, again too startled for words. Did he really not know, or was he just pretending so as to treat her like any other person? She swallowed hard. Either way it was a kind gesture, and she didn't want to spoil it. She almost wanted to lie to him, but she knew she couldn't. After all, he already knew she was a Potter. How many other Potters were there with black hair, green eyes, and the mark of the Phoenix on their forehead? Quickly she brushed her hair over her scar.

"I-I'm a pure-blood," she admitted. The tone of her voice proved that she didn't want to say what she was saying and would have rathered crawl into an empty pit and die. "My parents are both wizards. Went to this school, actually…my-my father is Harry Potter." She had done well up until that last phrase. It wasn't particularly necessary, and now it sounded like she was bragging, which was the last thing in the world she wanted to do. Immediately she wanted to take back her words. She bit her lips anxiously.

He lifted an eyebrow. "Harry Potter? Sure, I've heard of him…helps lead the Order, doesn't he? Well, no matter. I'm not interested in your father. I'm interested in you." With that he smoothly slipped his hand into hers and gave it a quick squeeze before letting go again. 

Abby could have died. She knew she was now beet-red, and her heart was thudding loudly in its cavity. It had swelled so much, it felt as though it had jumped into her throat. Suddenly she started to wonder if this was real, if she was really here. Was it possible that a boy as wonderful as this could truly be interested in her? Her, and not her background? It seemed this term was going to be a thousand times better than she'd ever dreamed.

Before she got the chance to ask about _his _family, Professor Sands called out, "Abigail Potter!" She looked at Elijah and gave him a weak smile. She wasn't terribly nervous about the Sorting Hat itself. She knew Sands would just drop it on her head and it would declare-for all the Great Hall to hear-in which house she belonged. It was simple, and she didn't have to do a thing. She was absolutely terrified of what the Hat would _say. _Both her parents and her grandparents (on her father's side; she'd never known them but knew this about them) had been in Gryffindor House. It was one of the noblest histories a wizard could have, and besides, her father would be sorely disappointed if that wasn't her house. All summer he'd been talking about it as though she already was a Gryffindor. What if the Hat proclaimed her a Hufflepuff, or worse, a Slytherin? She didn't even want to think about the look that would play across his face.

Elijah gave her an encouraging nudge toward the Professor, and she proceeded up the couple of steps to the stool. Meanwhile, she noticed the entire school had noted the similarities between her and her father. Students were murmuring to each other and staring at her, pointing up at her like she couldn't see them. Their eyes grew wide, their jaws had dropped, and they didn't bother to disguise their voices.

"Potter? Did he say Potter?"

"Must be. Look, she's got a scar just like Harry's."

"Wow, the daughter of Harry Potter, here at Hogwarts."

"Oh, she'll never be half the wizard her old man was." This last comment was, of course, from Hugh. Abby felt a sudden, profound thirst to prove herself among the students that marveled at her. _They all know my name, _she thought, _but only three know _me. Nonetheless, her entire body trembled as she sat slowly down on the aged stool. Now she was facing the blunt stares and open criticism. Why did they keep talking about her scar? Had it darkened that much once again? She looked down at the floor and then up again, hoping her hair hid more of her forehead. She was ordinarily very shy and hated to be the center of attention. This only made things worse. She waited nervously for Professor Sands to drop the Hat on her head. Her nerves felt like a thick ball in the pit of her stomach. If she wasn't sorted soon, she was going to be sick.

Soon enough Sands had placed the enchanted hat over her thick head of hair and everyone in the Great Hall had disappeared. A familiar-sounding voice filled her ears, no doubt from the Hat itself. She closed her eyes and awaited the verdict.

"Ah, another Potter, eh? Oh, you're all always so difficult…my my, I've never _seen _such a hunger to prove yourself. Tired of living in your father's shadow? Yes, well, you've got quite a bit to live up to, you know…but you've got an excellent head on your shoulders, perfect for Ravenclaw…and so faithful to your friends…you'd make a splendid Hufflepuff. And greatness, oh my goodness yes, you long to be great in your own right…_ideal _for Slytherin. Oh you Potters, always so multi-talented…so difficult…let's see…oh all right, I suppose that's truly the House for you, then…looks like another GRYFFINDOR!"

The word was music to Abby's ears. She tore the Hat off, flung it on the stool, and eagerly raced toward the Gryffindor table. The whole House had erupted into cheers and applause s she sat in the seat Paul Finnigan, also a new House member, had saved for her. All around her the other Gryffindors were boasting about getting yet another Potter for the third generation running, but Abby was too overcome with relief to pay attention. She no longer had to worry about letting everyone-especially her dad-down. She hated to live under his shadow, but she desperately wanted to live up to his expectations. Above the heads of her new classmates she saw Dumbledore grin, lift up his goblet, nod at her, and take a drink. She smiled broadly. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad, after all.

Sands read off several more names before getting to the one Abby had been waiting to hear: "Elijah Young!" Excitedly she placed a hand on the empty seat beside her, staking claim to it as his. They had, after all, had a very interesting conversation, and she couldn't wait to hear more about him. He approached the stool calmly, but she noticed his face seemed a bit flushed. He gripped the sides of the stool and tapped them impatiently as the Hat was dropped on his head. His gaze met hers, and he smiled. For that moment his anxious fingers had stopped tapping. She could see the Hat forming some sort of words, and Elijah seemed a little alarmed by them. _Probably just mentioning the other Houses as it did with me, _Abby thought. The Hat finally made up its mind:

"SLYTHERIN!" Abby stared, unblinking, while Professor Sands removed the Hat. She thought she heard wrong at first. But no, Elijah was reacting the same way, and behind her the Slytherin table was clapping politely. The other Houses were quiet. Elijah sat frozen to the stool for a few seconds from shock, then found his mobility and walked slowly to the table. Not sure what else to do, Abby turned in a panic toward Paul.

"Paul, there's been a mistake, there's _got _to have been! I met Elijah. He's a good kid, he really is. He's nothing like those other Slytherins. He belongs here with us, I just know it!" He just looked at her and shrugged it off.

"Well, if the Sorting Hat put him in Slytherin, it must have had good reason. Besides, there's no going back now. You can't change tradition." She narrowed her eyes at his off-handed way of dealing with the situation. How dare he shrug it off with as simple a comment as that! A sweet young boy was about to become a cold, cruel-hearted wizard, and all Paul could say was "oh well". Couldn't he even make an _effort _to make amends? Giving a disgusted sigh of exasperation, she turned around in her seat to face the Slytherin table. Across the way Hugh sneered at her, but she ignored him. Right now she had eyes only for the boy now sitting right in front of her. It was lucky their tables at least sat right next to each other. All they had to do was turn around and they would face each other.

"You'd better turn around and join your House," he said sadly. With a defiant flip of her hair she replied,

"Never. I'll never turn my back on you."


	5. The family who lived

            November glanced out the window in front of her and saw her husband walking up the front steps.  "Hermione?" she said into the phone receiver she had between her chin and shoulder.  "Harry's home.  I'm going to have to call you back."  Without waiting for her to reply, she took hold of the phone with her hand again and clicked the "off" button.  She left the dishes in the sink and the phone on the counter as she went to meet Harry at the door.  Her wand, with which she had been washing the dishes from breakfast, lay forgotten by the phone.  Somehow this seemed much more important.  

            She rushed over and flung the kitchen door wide open.  "Hey hon, you're back," she greeted him with a bright smile.  He glanced up at her and smiled back.  It was obvious he had been lost somewhere deep within himself, and was only now returning to the world of the here and now.  She accepted that; had been accepting it for years.  In fact, in all their many years of marriage she had grown quite used to it.  She'd noticed that he usually only drifted off into the past when he was left alone to daydream.  Those moments were rare and precious, and she didn't dare disrupt them.

            Harry, though, realized he'd faded out for a moment and shook his head of his fantasies.  After all, what thing in the past did he have that could have been better than the beautiful woman that stood beaming before him?  He wrapped one arm around her to draw her a bit closer and softly placed a kiss on her cheek. 

            "Hi, mi dulcita," he said, stepping inside.  "What's the good word?"  She laughed quietly, mostly to herself, and shut the door behind him.  She loved it when he called her by pet names, especially in her native tongue.  It proved he cared enough to make the attempt to learn Spanish, even if he didn't quite get everything right.  This display of affection made her cheeks flush with red and calmed her excited voice.  It was an incredible feeling to know that such an amazing man, the man who'd had her heart since the first time she saw him, was in love with her.  To be loved by the one she loved…god, that meant everything, especially since what she had to say required such a strong relationship.

            "Well, I…I _do _have something to tell you, love.  Let's go sit in the living room," she began, continuing to smile from ear to ear.  To her it felt as though her happiness started in her mind and filled every crevice, right down to her toes.  It was as though someone had injected a warm liquid straight into her veins.

            Harry knew full well something out-of-the-ordinary was going on, and though he didn't know what it was exactly he knew by her smile that it was something good.  Of course, any time she smiled at him he had the irresistible urge to smile back, so he soon found a broad grin of his own crossing his face.  He allowed her to take up both his hands in hers and gently lead him into the living room.  It had to be something fairly important, he knew that much; why else would she insist he sit down with her for it?  

            His eyes shone with wild anticipation as she guided him gently toward one of the larger armchairs in the room.  It had two plush cushions, and both were quite large and roomy.  It sat right square in the middle of the room, directly in front of the fireplace with an enormous window to the left.

            "All right, Em," said Harry, sitting on the couch and drawing his legs up beneath him, "what's this amazing surprise that I just _had _to sit down for?"  Still not letting go of his warm, soothing grip on her hands, she sat herself comfortably beside him and turned to face him.  In essence, she was really sitting in front of him.  She toyed with his fingertips for a moment, unsure of how to start her explanation.  She had done this before, but that had been more than eleven or twelve years ago.  That felt like ages past.  Where on earth did she start?  She swallowed hard in a vain attempt to swallow her nerves.

            "Well, I…all right, here goes," she reassured herself, taking a very deep breath while continuing to knead his fingers in her hands.  "You know how, ever since Abby was born, you've been talking about having a son to carry on the name?  You know, so the Potter family will live on, since Abby will eventually marry into another family?  Well, I talked to the doctor today.  It seems you and your daughter are both getting your wishes.  I'm about six weeks along and I never knew it, so the doctor told me he could tell…we're going to have a new baby boy in the family.  Abby will get a little brother to play with, and you'll be getting a son to carry on the Potter name when we're gone."

            November couldn't believe she'd been able to say all that.  She drew in a sharp breath and waited patiently for a reaction.  It took a moment, because Harry was so surprised by the news that his entire body froze.  He wondered briefly if it was true, if his luck was the sort to bring him a new life like this.  As he stared unblinking into her eyes, every expression etched on her face seemed to point in the same direction: she spoke the truth.  Understanding washed over him, and he smiled more brightly than he had in a very long time.

            "November," he breathed, hardly daring to speak, "are you sure?  Are you absolutely positive?"  She wasn't sure whether or not this was a positive response, so she nodded slowly in reply to his widened eyes.  Fortunately for her, though, it was music to his ears.  His smile grew until his cheekbones ached, and his eyes shone with a brilliant shade of green such as she hadn't seen since their wedding day.  He seemed too thrilled for words, and simply flung his arms around her waist in an excited embrace.  She gave a start of surprise and laughed with relief at his acceptance.  It had scared her at first, because he'd questioned it as though he really didn't want it to be true.  But there was no going back now, and it meant a lot to her that he accept this.

            "Oh, this is great!  This is fantastic!" he exclaimed, hugging her tightly around the middle.  "A new member to the family…oh, Em, it's so exciting!  I-I hardly know what to say!  Wow…a son…and a daughter…and a beautiful wife.  I never knew my life could be so good.  A baby boy to live on through…it's like being born again.  Not that I wasn't thrilled to have Abby; you and she are my life right now, but to have a son to really live through…and you know, I know just what to call him, too."  

            November drew herself away from her husband's loving hold so as to look straight at him.  He seemed to be glowing more than she was, and _she _was the one carrying the child!  "You're more than welcome to name him whatever you like," she invited with a chuckle.  "It's all right with me.  Just not Harry Jr. or anything like that.  That's just ridiculous."  She was allowed to make this comment, of course, because she knew he would never suggest such a thing.  If there was anything she'd learned about Harry in all the time she'd known him, it was that he was very humble.  He hated to discuss his accomplishments because in truth they were so great that they couldn't be considered anything else, no matter how objectively it was discussed.  ***Harry doesn't want to have an ego, lol***  To name a child after him directly would be the very last thing Harry would ever want to do.

            "No, no, of course not.  But since he _will _be breathing new life into our last name, I think there's a first name I'd like to see live on as well," he said, his eyes twinkling as he pressed his forehead lightly against hers.  "James."

            She could do nothing but smile.  _Of course, _she thought.  _That makes perfect sense.  _James Potter was a name highly revered in the wizarding world.  He and his wife Lily were known to be two of the most powerful wizards to take a stand against Voldemort during the Dark times years and years ago, Albus Dumbledore notwithstanding.  ***did I use that right?  It sounded good***  Lily was widely known for her skill in charms, and James had a bit of a knack for potions, though he would never admit it.  He was also still regarded as one of the best Chasers the game of Quidditch had ever seen.  That required stealth, sure- (and light-) footedness, and animal-like speed, and his talent was very well known.  James Potter had also been Harry's father.  Harry had never known him, and now that he himself was a parent it only seemed right that he honor his hero in some way.  His middle name was James, but that just wasn't enough.  He wanted a child with the full, complete name to carry on the legacy, and she could understand that.

            "All right," she slowly agreed, "but…I don't know, James Potter…it feels a bit…strange to use that name again.  Maybe…maybe if we put 'James' on the birth certificate, and just call him Jimmy or Jim or something.  I mean, only as a nickname, of course.  Other than that, well, I suppose I can't argue."  

            He smiled brightly.  He was far too pleased with the news in general to argue, and besides, he was essentially getting what he'd asked for.  Ever since Abby had been born, he'd wanted to have a son and name him after his father.  November knew that, and she understood there was something in that desire that was typical (for lack of a better term) of most men.  That was why she had to allow him to use the name.  ***look out world; James Potter returns!  LOL***  

            "Jimmy sounds wonderful," he agreed with a nod of his head.  And with that, leaving his hands pressed gently against her hips, he leaned in and very softly kissed her lips.  November could have melted.  It felt like ages since he'd last kissed her so sweetly, and it was beautiful enough to bring a grown man to his knees.  This was the sort of old magic so few wizards understood.  It was the sort of magic Harry and Dumbledore alone knew to use.  Love was the sort of magic November treasured in Harry.  ***~thinks to herself~ Okay, okay, have to remember, he's 12, I'm 17…he's 12, I'm 17…lol Andria!*** 


	6. The Friend of the Foe

The world around them had just started to disappear in their eyes when a heavy fluttering of wings came in suddenly from the window.  Harry was startled enough to jump back from November.  Hedwig, the snow-white owl he'd had since he was a boy, was upstairs napping in a small room they'd nicknamed "Hedwig's room".  It was roomy enough for the aging creature, but there was very little room inside for much else.  Age was not doing the animal well, so Harry rarely sent his friend out to carry messages.  Ordinarily he just had to wait for the Ministry of Magic to send him an owl and then he would simply use that owl to send his reply.  However, this was no Ministry bird.  This was a tiny owl, a pitch-black one small enough to fit in the palm of his hand.  He carried a card that was bigger than he was.  It was a plain white card made of a light cardboard material, and it was folded over so that the writing inside was hidden.  There was no writing on the outside.  

            The moment Harry slid the card from the bird's sharp talons it flew off immediately back out the window.  Its haste puzzled the both of them.  "I suppose it's not expecting much of a reply," November commented, attempting to explain the bird's behavior more to herself than to Harry.  A look of bemusement completely covered his face as he looked over the blank card.

            "Em, I really don't like the looks of this," he said warily.  There was something disconcerting ***thank you Kelly for that word!** * about a mysterious message being flown from someone in hiding.  That, at least, was his guess.  When his godfather Sirius Black had gone into hiding, he used to use little wood owls such as this to send post to Harry. It made it difficult for the Ministry to trace that way.  Still, they had never flown away so quickly after their delivery.  That very much irked him.  He slid his thumb into the opening of the card and pulled it wide open.

            The green light that soon emitted from the card was almost blinding.  He blinked a couple times and waited for the light to dim.  It was a spell-a charm, to be exact-he knew well.  It was used to light up the words of any message for a flashy appeal.  It really had no use other than for entertainment, and he and Hermione used to use it when they sent posts to each other, just for fun.  However, this message was certainly not from Hermione.  When the light had dimmed enough to make out the letters on the card, Harry found two words staring up at him.  He spoke them aloud as he read them.

            "Avada Kedavra."  November's arm, which she had wrapped protectively around Harry's arm, quivered in fear.  Fear struck her as it never had before.  Her mouth went dry, her eyes widened, and her stomach churned uncomfortably.  Not for the first time, someone was out to kill Harry.  For a moment she was struck speechless.  Her arm wound tighter around his, as though in doing so it would keep him alive beside her.  The words of the dreaded, unforgivable, lethal curse, when used with a swift wand motion, brought upon a death so feared that the words alone were nearly as taboo as the word "Voldemort" had been ages ago.  This was a threat to be sure, and it scared her to no end.

            "Voldemort," she breathed.  He was the only possible culprit that made sense to her, and it seemed the very thing he would do.  As terrified as he was, Harry took the situation calmly.  It was one thing she admired about him: he was usually very skilled at keeping a level head in a crisis.  Not always, but usually.  He turned the card over and discovered new lettering on the back that hadn't been there before.

            " 'The Friend of the Foe'," he read, his voice unwavering.  "No, this is a game someone's playing.  Voldemort wouldn't play games.  If he truly wanted me dead, he would just come right out and kill me.  No, whoever this is, is just trying to scare me.  'Friend of the Foe'…must be a friend of Voldemort's, then.  A Death Eater, perhaps.  Well, they can't scare me this easily.  Still, if it would make you feel better, I'll go to the Ministry with this.  Would that ease your fears?"  He could sense her fear in everything about her, from the expression on her face to the way she clung so tightly to him.  Maybe he felt safe enough to wave the note off as nothing important, but it was visible that she didn't share the feeling, and her feeling of safety meant more to him than his own.

            "A bit," she replied.  "I just worry about you, that's all.  You'll take your cloak, won't you?"  He grinned at her valiant attempt to care more about his safety than hers.  He knew she wanted him to tell the Ministry of the message, but he hated to leave her alone and frightened like this.  He also knew if he told her he wanted to stay and keep her company, she would refuse and insist that he go, though it wasn't at all what she wanted.  Maybe he would ask Ron to keep an eye on her without telling her.  It would make him feel more at ease about leaving his family behind.  He knew Abby was safe enough at Hogwarts.  It was November and now the son she was carrying that he worried about.

            "Of course," he replied, getting up and walking toward the front door.  There was a small closet by that door, and this was really where he was headed.  It was a cramped closet under the stairs that led to the upstairs bedrooms.  In many respects it reminded him of the closet the Dursleys used to make him use for a bedroom when he was younger.  Now it made him chuckle every time he opened it.  November stood and walked over to where he had gone, still trembling a bit from the shock of the note.

            "I think," he said, opening the door and rooting through its contents, "I might even take the broom Ron gave me for my birthday.  Goodness knows I haven't been able to use it yet, and I think it would be better for my nerves than to Apparate."  With this he dug out the Windcatcher that had been propped up against the back wall.  The gold lettering still sparkled like new, and familiar electricity flowed through his hands just in touching it.  It even made November smile to see how much he ached to put such a quality racing broom to good use.  She couldn't refuse.

            "All right," she said slowly, as thought not altogether sure it _was _all right.  She reached into the depths of the closet and pulled out a black, silky cloak, the likes of which flowed through her fingers like liquid rubber.  She had handled it before, but it still came as an odd sensation.  "I suppose I have to let you go.  Come back as soon as you can, okay?"

            He nodded in agreement ***what's he gonna say? No?** * and, placing one hand casually on her hip, kissed her softly.  _Like I would do anything else, _he thought.  "Send an owl to Dumbledore for me?" he asked her imploringly.  "I think he ought to know about this."  

            She had been planning to do this anyway, so she had no difficulty in agreeing to it.  "Okay…but Harry?" she asked, still toying with his cloak in her hands.  "There's something else I want you to talk about with the Ministry.  If this continues…well, I…I-I want…I want a Secret-Keeper."  She said this last bit all at once and in one breath, as though she hated to say it but knew she had to.  It was what she wanted and it was an idea she'd been playing with for quite some time.  However, she was unsure of how he would react.

            Sure enough, he looked at her quietly while the words soaked in.  A Secret-Keeper?  A Secret-Keeper had betrayed his parents.  A Secret-Keeper had left them both to die.  He wasn't too sure he could put that much trust into one person and cut off so much contact with the outside world in going into hiding.  However, Harry knew better than to refuse right away without thinking about it.  ***smart kid*** 

            "Sure, I'll ask…but only theoretically.  I want to discuss it more when I come home," he told her.  She smiled weakly, and reluctantly handed him back his cloak.  Truth be told, she really didn't want to let him go.  Every time he went to the Ministry for a little thing like this, he always ended up staying there for days at a time.  He would deliver his message, but Cornelius Fudge (who was still the Minister of Magic, though he was getting along in years) would send him on some errand for the Order that required more time and energy than they seemed to realize, and Harry was too good a person to tell them no.  She had a few more nights without him to look forward to.  She sighed inwardly.

            He gave her one last kiss goodbye before draping the cloak over his shoulders and dropping the top part of it over his head.  He was now completely invisible, just a vague shimmer of light whose outline she could hardly make out.  All she could see was a broomstick standing upright before her.  It had been a little creepy at first, but she soon got used to seeing objects move through invisible hands.  She watched the broomstick fall horizontally a foot or so above the ground before it, too, was disguised by the cloak.

            "I love you, November," came a disembodied voice from the air in front of her.  She didn't even give it a second thought anymore.  She returned the statement in kind, folding her arms across her chest in a vain attempt to protect her body from the cool wind that was about to flood the house.  The front door swung open, and in her mind's eye she followed Harry's path up into the bright blue stretch of sky.

            "Good luck," she murmured beneath her breath, as though someone were listening and could overhear her.  She prayed silently that he would come home, alive and well.  That was part of the difficulty in being married to Harry Potter: you never knew if the conversation you were having would be his last.  _Maybe that sort of uncertainty works for him, _thought November, giving a shiver and closing the door, _but it doesn't work for me._

            ***one of my favorite chapters…I love the reviews, you guys!  Thank you!  ~slyly~ So, you think November's being a bit wimpy and reliant on Harry, who's become the hero to save the day and _knows _it?  ~rubs hands together mischievously~  Good, good…* ******


	7. First day at Hogwarts

"Potter!" Professor Snape snapped, turning on her so quickly the hems of his robe billowed around his ankles. "Leave Elijah alone so he can work. He doesn't need you fouling up his potion. You're just like your father-always putting your nose in where it doesn't belong." 

Abby froze in the middle of slicing up her roots. Her hands trembled slightly atop the knife she was using to slice, and she stared down in shame at her cutting board. It was her first day of Potions class and already she had managed to do something wrong. She mumbled an apology and waited for him to leave. In the back of her mind she begged him to leave her be. Something about the way his cold, black eyes bore down condescendingly on her made her heart fall into the pit of her stomach. Today was Double Potions, and though she'd made it to the second half of the class it seemed she could do nothing right. No matter what she did, it just wasn't good enough. She knew all the correct formulas and gave them to him when he asked, but he simply turned his nose up at them and criticized her for showing off. She picked off the right number of beetle wings and arranged them beautifully, but he told her they weren't fresh enough, swept them off the desk, and told her to do it over again. Now she was a good half hour behind everyone else, and he wouldn't let her forget it. 

"Professor, I asked her for help," Elijah protested on her behalf. "It was my fault, honest." He turned his back on Abby, giving her time to mouth the words "thank you" to him behind Snape's back. The professor now towered over his fellow Slytherin, his hands clasped tightly behind him. _His hands, _Abby thought in wonder. _They look so pale, so cold, so…void of emotions. Just like the rest of him. No wonder he's head of Slytherin house._

"And what makes you so sure she's not going to spoil your formula so as to make herself seem more intelligent?" he challenged, giving Abby one last glare before continuing on to criticize the other Gryffindors and praise the other Slytherins. Abby shivered outwardly at the cold he made her feel. It seemed he had a strong dislike, hatred even, of all the Gryffindors, but he seemed to particularly loathe her. It was only the first day of class, but she already wished it was the last day. 

Class ended just when Snape had walked away, and Abby couldn't have been more relieved. He glanced at his wrist, excused the class with a careless wave of his hand, and swept out of the room as quickly, quietly, and darkly as a shadow. The rest of the class started packing up their things, and Abby soon follow suit.

"I _hate _this class!" she cried out, slamming her book shut. The dead beetles from which she had spent the last ten minutes picking off the wings scattered across the desk in the motion, but she paid them no mind. No doubt she would be in trouble for it, but she would be in trouble with Snape no matter what, unless she was able to somehow transfigure herself into a Slytherin. That or denounce her father and become anything but a Potter. Anyone who was neither a Potter nor a Gryffindor, _that's _who Snape liked.

"The formulas are hard, the calculations are impossible, and anything I do just isn't good enough for that miserable old git of a wizard!" she went on, surprise by her own fuming. She gathered up her materials in a haste to return to the Gryffindor tower. Her last class of the day, Transfiguration, wouldn't be for another hour, and anywhere was better than being here in the chilly, dank halls of the dungeon. She took much of her frustration out on her materials, slamming her books down hard on one another. She almost upset her ink bottle in the process. Elijah opened his mouth to reply, but she was nowhere near finished.

"I just don't get it! I haven't done a thing wrong, and he blames me for everything! All because of my dad. 'You're a screw-up, just like your father.' 'If your father did this, why can't you?' 'Even your father got it right, and that was rare, so why do you keep getting it wrong?' 'You're a typical Potter.' Potter this, Potter that. I bloody hate this! No es justo, y no sé por qué todo es mi culpa! No hago nada, y siempre es mi culpa! _NO HICE NADA!_" she exclaimed, shouting the last part loud enough for the entire room to hear her. Of course, it was Spanish, so none of them really understood it anyway.

*s**I'm just a student of the language, so forgive any grammatical mistakes I make but loosely translated that's: "It's not fair, and I don't know why everything is my fault. I don't do anything, and it's always my fault! _I DIDN'T DO ANYTHING!_" J*** 

Fighting to hold back tears of frustration, she swept all of her books and things clear off the desk and into her arms, and stormed angrily out of the room. She didn't want anyone to see her cry, so she brushed the corners of her eyes against her shoulder so as to dry any potential tears. She couldn't remember the last time she'd really allowed herself to explode like that, and it almost felt good to release the steam from the anger that had been boiling inside her for she didn't know _how _long. Behind her she heard the hard slap of leather sole on stone that meant someone was trying to keep up with her. She slowed down enough to see who it was. If it was Elijah, she wouldn't mind walking with him. If it was Paul, she would keep right on going. She usually didn't mind talking to him, but she knew he would demand to know what was wrong and she didn't feel much like explaining herself.

"Abby wait," a familiar voice called, stepping up beside her. She smiled inwardly. It was Elijah. "Are you all right? I mean, I know the class is hard and everything, but believe me, it's not your fault. If he hates you because of your father, well, don't you think he might be a bit…jealous? Harry Potter _is _a great wizard, after all. One of the best, they say. And he works right along with the Ministry. Meanwhile, no matter how great Snape gets to be, he'll always be stuck teaching Potions, which everyone knows isn't even his favorite thing to teach. _He _wants to teach Defense Against Dark Arts, and Dumbledore would never give him that position because of his, well, background. If he ever tried to quit being a professor at Hogwarts, one of the Death Eaters – or maybe even Voldemort himself – would certainly make him a target for abandoning the Dark Arts. So don't you think it's possible that maybe, just maybe, Snape feels just about as trapped as you do?"

Abby walked a bit in quiet contemplation of this theory. Was it possible that this cold, dark teacher could really feel any of the same things she did? That she was mistaking his heartless cruelty for bitter jealousy? Now she felt almost guilty for saying the things she'd said. The idea made her think so intently that she stopped walking entirely, though she didn't realize her legs had stopped moving.

"I don't know…maybe…Elijah, this isn't Sympathy-for-Snape Day. I was just…frustrated, overwhelmed, that's all. I'll survive the year, I'm sure. Besides, I don't want to talk about it anymore. I'm freezing to death down here, and the only way out is through a door that's over here someplace and I can't figure out where!" She pounded her fists fiercely against the wall in front of her in vexation, as though the door would somehow collapse if she banged on the wall hard enough. She knew it was there; she had walked through it not two hours ago. So where on earth did it go?

Elijah, who knew enough about human nature to approach the situation calmly and delicately, laughed softly beneath his breath. He reached up to his shoulders and unwrapped his green and silver scarf from its loose fold around his neck. He had intended to take a meditative walk down by the school lake after class, and since the weather had become slightly chilly as of late he'd taken his warm, wooly scarf. This he now placed on Abby's shoulders, lifting up her thick, raven-black hair and laying it gently over the scarf and the back of her robe. She shivered, not sure if that came from the chill of the dungeon or the warming of her heart. It was a pleasant feeling to be sure, and she didn't dare question it lest it stop if she did.

"Any better?" he asked softly. Her only reply was a smile, which he knew to be one of gratitude. 

"All right, well, this must be one of those trick doors Sean was warning us about," he said thoughtfully, stepping up to the wall in contemplation. He was referring, of course, to Gryffindor's prefect this year. ***stupid question for the fans: what year are prefects? Because Percy was a prefect in Harry's first year, and Head Boy in Harry's third year, so was he a prefect in Harry's second year, too? That is, was he a prefect in his fifth _and _sixth year?* **"Let me see…yes, I think that might work…" he mused. He was gliding the palms of his hands along the smooth wall in search of some hint that would solve their puzzle. He gently stroked the spot in the invisible door to show itself. At first this was utter nonsense to Abby…until it worked. The outlines of a door appeared as if they were watching an unseen hand draw it on with thick ink. A doorknob formed, and Abby found it opened quite easily. Before them lay a set of winding stairs that led him into the history and Muggle studies corridor. She looked at him with relief.

"Thank you," were the only words that came to her. He only smiled and gently directed her toward the steps. He had given her more than enough things to think about that afternoon, as had Professor Snape. After all, what was the purpose of bending over backward to please a teacher who couldn't be pleased? She would simply do her best, she resolved, and if that wasn't enough there was nothing more she could do. All during her walk up and out of the dungeons, all the way to Gryffindor tower, she never once took off Elijah's scarf. She got strange looks, mostly from Gryffindors and especially from Slytherins, but she chose to ignore them. The simple gesture meant more to her than the opinions of a handful of people.


	8. Professor Granger

Abby left the Gryffindor common room early that evening feeling refreshed and ready for anything. She had brushed her impossibly long hair into two braids down her sides, getting it out of her eyes and covering her scar at the same time. When she'd taken a moment to look into the mirror she'd noticed it had darkened significantly, and the last thing she needed was more comments about it. She, Paul, and a few other House members she was just getting to know had lit a fire, so she felt warmed, content, and ready to go. She still had Elijah's scarf, but she draped it over her bedpost so she could come back to it after they'd eaten. Paul stood at the bottom of the steps of the girl's dormitory, leaning in against the frame with his arms folded firmly across his chest.

"Better not let my mum see you with that scarf," his voice warned her as she glanced over in the mirror. "She's head of Gryffindor house, and she'll positively freak if she sees you wearing Slytherin colors." She rolled her eyes, scooped up her books and things, and headed down the steps to meet him. Class didn't start for another ten minutes, but they wanted to leave early in case the stairs decided to change direction again. That was Paul's reasoning, in any case. Abby was eagerly looking forward to Transfiguration class. Something about that sort of magic appealed to her, though what it was exactly that intrigued her she couldn't say.

"Oh, what has everyone got against Slytherin, anyway?" she said impatiently, tossing her braids back over her shoulders. "I mean, I _know they say there isn't a witch or wizard who was in Slytherin that didn't go bad, and I __know Voldemort himself was supposedly in Slytherin, but they're not __all bad. Elijah is actually very sweet. But no one will give him a chance because he's supposed to be a Dark wizard. Well, I won't put up with such nonsense. He's a good friend of mine not matter what house he's in."_

By then the two of them had already passed through the portrait hole and were walking toward their class. Dumbledore was just passing by them when Abby made her remark.

"Words wisely spoken," he said, smiling at her. She realized suddenly that she and Paul were not alone in the corridor, and felt her cheeks flush with a brilliant scarlet hue. The Headmaster was now walking beside them, surely headed for some destination of his own but keeping their company for the moment. Abby, who had known the kind old wizard since she was born, was accustomed to his presence and not affected by it in the least. Paul, however, wasn't nearly as used to it, and shuffled uncertainly in the great wizard's wake.

"Professor Dumbledore, sir, do you think…do you think it's possible the Sorting Hat might make a mistake and place someone in the wrong house?" she asked imploringly, looking up at him as one might looked up to their wizened old grandfather. She had a certain necessity in her eyes, like she needed to know the answer right away, like it was absolutely vital to her wellbeing that she know. He took a deep breath before answering, letting her know that he was considering the question with an utmost gravity.

"Miss Potter, it seems not too long ago your father was in the room asking me the very same question. Let me first explain to you exactly how the Hat works. It was bewitched by the four founders of Hogwarts to examine each student's individual qualities and, based on the virtues each founder looked for in their pupils, place them in the appropriate house. Godric Gryffindor treasured courage, faith, and loyalty. That is why your mascot is the lion. Helga Hufflepuff wanted students who made strong bonds with their companions and considered friendship most important above all things. Salazaar Slytherin preferred students with pure wizarding backgrounds who were clever, cunning, knew their goals and weren't afraid to use any means necessary to achieve them. And Rowena Ravenclaw chose those who were quite witty and intelligent. Brains above brawn, as the saying goes. All four valued strength, but each valued it in a different way. Many times students have virtues that overlap each other. You, just as your father before you and his father before him, have strength that any one of the founders would have desired. That is why the Hat found it so difficult to place you. You also have one other special quality that would be considered great in any witch or wizard, regardless of their House – the ability to accept change. People can change, my young Abigail, and they very often do. What the Hat sees fit to base its decision on may change, and so few people are willing to accept it that when a student is Sorted, they are to remain in that House throughout all seven years. So no, the Sorting Hat cannot make a mistake; it is we who make the mistakes," Dumbledore explained. He added a wink to close, walked with her a few more steps, and turned off toward a separate corridor. Paul looked to see where he had gone, but Abby was again quite used to this. It was simply part of Dumbledore's nature to offer kind-hearted advice and then mysteriously vanish. She never gave it so much as a second thought.

The two friends walked together into the Transfiguration classroom a few minutes before the start of class and took their seats. Many of the students were already there, but not all of them, which told them class hadn't started yet. Abby opened her book and started looking over its contents. She was excited about the class, yes; but Professor Granger was an old friend of her father's. ***obviously, lol* She didn't want her first impression of her as a student to be a bad one. Anxious not to miss a thing, she opened her book of parchment, opened her inkbottle, and sat her sharpened quill inside the bottle.**

Professor Granger came into the room just moments after Abby and Paul. She had clipped her curly brown hair to about the middle of the back of her head that less than emphasized her age. She wore sleek, slender glasses at the bridge of her nose, her eyesight having deteriorated over the years. That and the confident way she strode up to her desk in the front made her look stern and yet very intelligent. She stood in front of the class with her hands folded in front of her, patiently waiting for the rest of the class to come in so she could begin. A few more Ravenclaws filed in, and about three or four more of them and a whole crowd of Gryffindors filtered inside before the bell rang ***they do have bells, don't they? ~feels stupid~* indicating the start of class. Professor Granger sat casually on the edge of the desk, leaning against it more or less, while she waited a little while longer for any latecomers. When she cleared her throat, Abby immediately snapped to attention. **** **

"Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen. Now I know it's late and you're all eager to get to dinner, but you've got to treat this like any other class or Professor Dumbledore will have my head. But don't worry; we'll start simple today. Just a few questions and a quick pop quiz to see if you've done your summer homework. Oh relax, the quiz will be painless, I promise. It won't count for anything. I just want to see if anyone knows how to do it. You'll see what I mean when we get to it.

"My name, if you don't already know, is Professor Granger. I went to school with many of your parents – yes, I see you back there Miss Longbottom – but don't think I'm going to give any of you special treatment," she said, adjusting the glasses on her nose for a stricter appearance. "At this moment you are all equals to me, and you will continue to _be equals until you prove (or disprove) your skill and talent to me. Your grades will be based on how well you do in here __and nothing else. As some of you know I am Head of Gryffindor House; however, I do not favor Gryffindors any more than I do Slytherins, Hufflepuffs, or Ravenclaws. If you show yourself to be a head above the rest, I will award your house points, regardless of the house. If you are late, take a tone I do not appreciate, or show lack of respect for yourself, me, or any of your classmates, I will deduct points from your house._

"As I said before, welcome to the area of magic known as Transfiguration. I will show you how to transfigure one object into another. Later in the year we will move on to turning objects into living creatures. If you decide to continue your education here at Hogwarts, you will learn to change animals – starting with insects and moving on to reptiles, birds, and finally mammals – into objects, and animals into other animals. Your last year here will be devoted entirely to human transfiguration. This can be most exciting, and also most dangerous. That is why it is essential that you learn and understand the basics of transfiguration this year. Now, before we start, are there any questions?"

Professor Granger, though only teaching for a few short years, had a certain command over her students that demanded respect. The entire class was quiet, and no one dared to ask any questions. Abby couldn't think of a single thing to ask that hadn't already been answered. The teacher's eyes scanned her class for raised hands; then, seeing that there weren't any, proceeded to her start-of-class quiz. Abby's ears pricked up.

"All right then, let's begin. Who can tell me the correct spell for transfiguring a pebble into a toothpick? I should be able to pick out any one of you and hear the correct answer…let's see…Mr. Murray?" Abby's hand had shot up into the air in her eagerness ***sound familiar? Lol* , but lowered just as quickly when someone else was chosen. She was desperately itching to prove to her classmates that she was good at _something, but also perfectly willing to let someone else answer. However, after a round of questions for every one of which she raised her hand, she hadn't been called on to answer a single one. This she found very disheartening. __I know this, she thought. __So why won't you give me a chance?_**

_ "Very good, I can see most of you have been studying. That will serve you well in my class. Now, the first thing we will be learning in here is transfiguring objects to objects. We'll begin with studying the spells, then move on to the hand motions, the right places to tap your wands for certain effects, and so on. ***wow, when you think about it, magic can be kind of complicated* If you do well in Charms, more than likely you will do well in here. Let's take this ink well, for example. Would anyone like to try to come and turn it, oh, I don't know…let's try blue. I won't mark you down if you get it wrong; you're not supposed to know how to do it exactly. But would anyone like to come up and try?"**_

_The ink well? Make it blue? Abby hesitated, her arm already halfway up. She had an idea about it that, with any luck, __might work, but she wasn't terribly sure about it. She really didn't want to get it wrong in front of Professor Granger, of all teachers. No points would be deducted, fine, but Professor Granger was an old friend of her family. If she did it wrong, no doubt her parents would hear about it, and then where would she be? Plus, everyone was already gawking at her. What if she couldn't do the spell? She could hear the murmurs already. _

_"What, Harry Potter's daughter can't do a simple spell? What a disappointment to her family!"_

Unfortunately, she hadn't pulled her hand back soon enough. "All right, Miss Potter, come give it a go." Abby shrank back in her seat, clutching her wand so tightly it nearly snapped in two. Her heart had fallen right through to the pit of her stomach, and her eyes widened. Paul gave her a friendly nudge similar to the one Elijah had given her at the Sorting. She swallowed hard, slid out of her seat, and very slowly approached the front desk. It felt like a mile between her and the front of the room. Professor Granger had set an inkwell on the center of the desk where the whole class could see it. Abby almost wished she could be sick, right then and there. Then Madam Pomfrey could whisk her away to the hospital wing and she wouldn't have to go through with this.

She finally reached the desk, standing behind it so that the inkwell was right in front of her. Everyone was now staring at her, 16 pairs of eyes boring into her skull. Professor Granger nodded encouragingly at her. She closed her eyes and lifted a shaky hand to the bottle.

"Cambio azzu," she murmured softly, tapping her wand against its inner lip. She felt the familiar warmth through her wand that she always felt when she did a spell. Whatever she had done, it had been done, and she cracked her eyelids to see if she'd done it correctly. Sure enough, the bottle – as well as its contents – had turned a brilliant shade of blue. She smiled with relief, now aware of the applause she was receiving. Even Professor Granger was clapping for her.

"Very well done, Abby," she whispered softly as Abby headed back to her seat. "Your father will be pleased."

***yes, Andry, I know McGonagall says that to Harry once…you're supposed to notice that…I'm going for parallelism between my story and the books; you'll see more things like that later on***


	9. The Potter's Secret-Keeper

            It was only the second day in September, but it felt like an eternity.  November had put some soft, calming music on the living room stereo, some old Spanish music with soothing rhythms and no lyrics, and for the second night in a row settled herself in for an evening alone – without her husband, without her daughter.  She brought an old quilt her grandmother had hand-knitted for her to the living room couch, along with a book she'd been trying to read and a steaming hot cup of tea.  ***ah, my favorite thing in the world to do*  It was a beautifully romantic atmosphere, but it felt so empty without Harry by her side.  Sighing deeply, she curled up under her quilt and opened the book.**

            Her eyes had barely touched the page she was on when she heard the front door being unlocked.  She could feel her entire body tighten at the sound of it.  The ordeal of the note, the one signed by "The Friend of the Foe" (_the coward, she thought to herself), still greatly upset her.  She replaced her bookmark and set the book down on the coffee table, praying it was Harry and not some uninvited guest.  Her eyes looked toward the door warily.  It slid open easily, revealing...the dark night sky outside and nothing else.  It was as though the door had simply opened of its own accord, and closed in the same manner.  November's heart continued to beat feverishly against her ribcage.  She drew in a sharp breath._

            The sound of footsteps followed, and a broomstick seemed to appear out of thin air.  November breathed a rather loud sigh of relief.  The broom was Harry's brand-new Windcatcher.  It was clear to her now he had simply forgotten to remove his Invisibility cloak.  The closet door was swung open by invisible hands, and the broom was placed inside.  Then Harry's figure came back to view as he slid the cloak from his shoulders and into the closet.  He closed the door again and walked, sure-footed but tired, toward the couch in the room adjoining the foyer he'd stepped into.  

            " 'Evening, love," he greeted November, placing a soft kiss on her forehead.  She closed her eyes and delighted in his light touch.  Harry was strong and fierce, but he was also warmhearted and loving.  "Mí león gentíl", she often called him.  "My gentle lion".  Before she had the chance to so much as smile at him, he had moved from behind the couch to right in front of it.  Now he sat himself beside her.  She lifted the quilt for him, then draped it over his lap so they were both snuggled warmly beneath it.  He sat with the attitude of an old man whose muscles had grown weary over the years.  It was as though the couch was made of hot coals on which he had to sit very gingerly, or else be burned.

            " 'Evening," she replied.  She noticed something on his cheek, a sharp, jagged line she was certain hadn't been there when he'd left.  She traced it with the very edge of her fingertip, but still he winced.  "Sweetheart, what's this?" she asked curiously.  It burned against her finger in a way, like a scar.  A real scar, not the kind of pencil mark both her husband and daughter shared.  It was the sort of scar she was sure had been bleeding at one point.

            Harry pulled her fingers away from the sensitive piece of skin she'd just touched.  "Oh...that...yeah, well, Sarah and I were working on a few spells to fight the Cruciatus curse.  We've been working on it for a while, but no luck yet.  While we were working on it, though, Sarah accidentally send a vase flying toward the wall, and I was working there so...oh hon, I know I went to tell them about that note, but Mr. Fudge sucked me in and I had to stay overnight.  I'm really, really sorry.  Honest, I am."  November could see the pleading desperation in his eyes.  She knew him better than anyone else did, and she could read in those two crystal sapphires ***dies  ****J* that he was genuinely sorry.  She smiled to tell him she accepted his apology, but was quiet, urging him to continue.  Now it was her turn to communicate with her eyes.  She knew he had discussed the note with the Ministry.  Now she begged him to tell her the outcome – all without a word.  He willingly continued.**

            "I gave the note to the Ministry," he told her.  "Left it with Mr. Weasley.  It's not technically his department, but he's one of the few I trust.  Fudge says they're going to try a few countercurses, see if they can't trace it to whoever sends it.  Then they'll question their suspect, and if they did in fact do it he'll be facing a few years in Azkaban for threatening murder.  Fudge wants us to write if there are any more threats, so he'll know how severe to make the sentence."

            Suddenly Harry grew very quiet.  He had reached a sensitive subject, that much was clear; November waited patiently for him to go on.  He broke his gaze on her to stare down blankly at his hands.  "I asked about getting a Secret-Keeper," he said softly, as though his voice was walking on eggshells.  "Fudge said it was all right.  He volunteered to do the spell himself, in face.  The whole Ministry seemed all-for the idea.  Everyone was volunteering to be our Keeper, even Mr. Weasley.  A lot of people suggested Dumbledore, too…"  He trailed off purposely.  There was much more he wanted to say, but he wasn't terribly sure how to say it.  He decided to wait for her reaction before he said any more.

            November listened quietly to this explanation, slipping her hands discreetly into his, struggling to read the emotions in his heart through his eyes.  They would tell her little, only that he was very, very afraid.  She gently massaged his hands with her thumbs. ***my b/f does that…it gets me every time!*  "Well, if we get a Keeper, it would have to be someone we genuinely trust.  We always say, 'Sure, I trust so-and-so, I would trust them with my life.'  But this can't be off-handed like that; it has to be someone we really _do _trust with our lives.  I know Dumbledore would take our secret to the grave, but…well, he's not exactly getting any younger, Harry.  And he's always at Hogwarts.  We need someone closer to our age who will be around us often enough to care for us.  Someone like Hermione.  Or Ron.  Well, or maybe not.  I know I can trust them, but I've never known either of them to be particularly brave.  We need someone with a lot of courage…one of the Weasley twins, maybe…"**

            Anger flashed suddenly in Harry's eyes.  "You say this like we've already made the decision to get a Secret-Keeper," he said quietly, his voice low enough to indicate he was thoroughly angry.  She was so preoccupied with her own thoughts of choosing a Keeper that his words seemed to pass right over her.  November, who had become very skilled at picking up the slightest details of emotions in her husband, noticed the change in his tone.

            "Oh.  Well, you said Fudge was all right with it, and if the Ministry of Magic says it's all right…"  Harry wasted no time in cutting her off this time.

            "November Liliana Morales Potter, _I do not want a Secret-Keeper_," he said through gritted teeth, narrowing his eyes to make his point.  ***Oh crap, is she ever in trouble***  "I don't want to be cut off from the rest of the world.  Do you realize if we choose to tell one person and one person alone of our whereabouts, no one else will be able to find us – at all?  If we make Dumbledore our Keeper, we won't be able to talk with Ron, or Hermione, or anybody else.  We have to rely on our Keeper to keep contact with the outside world for us.  November, my friends mean everything to me.  I can't live without them.  Or at least, I don't want to.  Plus, a Secret-Keeper betrayed my parents.  I won't ever be able to know my mum and dad.  My parents are _dead _because they trusted a Keeper.  I just don't think I can put that much faith into one person.

            "Please, Em," he begged now, "it was only one letter.  Just a little piece of paper with a few words on it.  We don't even know it was Voldemort who sent it!  It could have just been a kid who did it, little Huey for example.  This seems the sort of thing he would do.  Please, let's not jump to conclusions just yet.  When we know it was the Dark Lord who sent it, when we know for certain our lives are in danger, _then _let's talk about getting a Secret-Keeper.  I know you're afraid, and I know a Keeper is the only way you'll feel safe.  But is there _anything _else I can do for you to make you feel safe?"

            ***this is my favorite part of my story, LOL***  November studied the way his eyes pleaded with hers, felt the way he grasped to her hands as though terrified she was slipping away.  She gave his hands an extra squeeze before pulling out of the hold he had on her.  For a moment she continued to study his face.  His was one that showed his age to be much greater than his years, a characteristic he'd had since he was a boy of 11.  The glow of the fire illuminated half his face, giving him a mysterious look.  Nonetheless, he looked very weary.  His cheeks were a bit sunken, void of the cheery, youthful glow he usually managed to forge.  His face was rugged, war-torn, and his hair stuck up in odd places to give him a frazzled appearance.

            And his eyes…she reached up and lifted his round, wire-rimmed glasses from his nose and ears.  His eyes were a brilliant shade of green, revealing a flame of conviction he simply would not give up on.  Beneath those two, glittering emeralds that had made her fall in love with him all those years ago were lines, dark, heavy ones that seemed to have been drawn on with black Magic Marker.  She set his glasses down on the coffee table.

            "Mi amor," she said, again faintly touching the sharp scar on his cheek.  This time he didn't flinch.  She began to trace her fingertip along the lines beneath his eyes that gave evidence of a sickening lack of sleep.  Of course he wouldn't trust a Secret-Keeper.  One had basically killed his parents.  That was like asking Voldemort to join the Order of the Phoenix, or asking Harry to become a Death-Eater.  How could she have been so foolish, so selfish?

            "Mi amor, you're tired.  I can see that.  There are plenty of things that would make me feel safe other than a Secret-Keeper.  But for right now, let's just get ourselves to bed.  We can talk more on this in the morning."  She leaned in and gently kissed the scar on his cheek.  He closed his eyes at the tickling, soothing touch of her lips on his skin.  She gave a soft kiss to his full, pink lips, then nestled herself comfortably against him.  It was obvious she didn't have the energy or the will to climb up the stairs to bed.  He didn't argue.  After putting in hour after hour at the Ministry, he didn't necessarily feel like moving too much, either.  Besides, he was in no mood to argue over such a silly thing as a Secret-Keeper any longer.

            Harry slipped the blanket over November's shoulders for warmth, and leaned his head back comfortably against the arm of the couch.  With the warm, comforting body of his wife in his arms, he felt himself drift away into sleep.  

*** ~paces the room, repeating to herself feverishly~  He's 12, I'm 17…he's 12, I'm 17…***


	10. Kindred spirit

November (the month of course, not November Potter) descended on Hogwarts castle, bringing with it a crisp, chilly addition to the air. No one much cared for Potions class or Defense Against the Dark Arts because the dungeons were by far the coldest parts of the castle. It wasn't unusual to find students wearing their House-colored scarves to their classes, particularly those in the dungeons. On more than one occasion Elijah and Abby had traded scarves, though they were careful to disguise them beneath their robes. When he'd offered his to her during Defense Against the Dark Arts she'd blushed, accepted the gift, and offered her own to him. The two were getting to be best friends. Paul was very sore about this, but tried not to show it for fear of being accused to jealousy.

It was late one evening in mid-November – November 15th, to be exact. The next day would be Abby's 12th birthday. ***LOL to anyone who's seen the movie!!!*** She sat inside the window of the girls' dormitory, perched comfortably on the cold stone ledge, lost deep in thought. Her parents' old owl Hedwig, a beautiful snowy owl despite its age, had flown in that window just minutes ago to deliver a letter from them. Everyone was still in the common room by a fire they'd lit, since it was Friday night and they didn't need to be in bed for another few hours. Abby was alone with Hedwig and her thoughts. She sat lengthwise on the windowsill, her knees drawn up to allow the tips of her toes to just touch the other side. On her lap she had a piece of parchment, and in her hand was a quill. She gently scratched the owl beneath its chin as she thought about what to write. Finally she dipped her quill into the inkbottle beside her and began to write.

"Dear Mom and Dad,

Hello! Good to hear from you again. I thought you'd forgotten me! Haha, only joking. Things are great here at school, though it feels a bit strange that everyone already knows so much about me. You're right Dad; it _is _creepy! I did end up being sorted into Gryffindor, and so did Paul. Hugh, of course, is in Slytherin. Nasty little bloke, he deserves it. There's the strangest Slytherin here, though. His name is Elijah Young, and he's so sweet! He's so kind and generous. He really wanted to be in Gryffindor, and I think he'd do great in our House. But for some odd reason the Sorting Hat put him in Slytherin. I just don't understand it! Professor Dumbledore says it's all right to be friends with him, even though our Houses hate each other. But it's so hard! What do you think?

So, what do you think of this color for my ink? It used to be black, but I transfigured it into blue! Can you believe it? Professor Granger asked us on the first day of school if anyone could do it, even though we didn't study it yet. And I got it right! She let me keep the ink as a sort of souvenir. Yes, Dad, Potions _is _a rotten class. I don't like it at all. It's so hard! I have to work twice as hard at it than I do any other class, and when I don't get something right Professor Snape makes it a huge deal! ¡No es justo! I know you say it's because I'm not in Slytherin, but I think it's worth it then. I'd rather have one bad class than go through all my classes as Slytherin.

I hope this letter makes it to you. Hedwig seems very tired. I'm going to let her rest in the owlery for a few days before sending her home. Honestly, we really ought to get a new owl. I mean, I love Hedwig, but she shouldn't have to spend her last days working for us. That's really cruel.

Anyway, I can't wait to see you both for the holidays!

With love,

Abby."

With one final flourish across the page, she finished her letter and folded it up neatly. She tucked it into Hedwig's beak, but not without a word of caution.

"Now Hedwig, I want you to go straight down to the owlery and _rest _until you're strong enough to take this letter to Mom and Dad," she directed, patting the old owl's head. Hedwig blinked slowly as if to say, "yes, I understand". Then she spread her wings, flapped them a few times to warm up, and flew awkwardly out the window. Abby watched her go, hugging her knees tightly to her middle for warmth. She sighed deeply. The night sky was a dark, inky black. It looked as though someone had spread a navy blue curtain over the sky, then poked it with many, many holes. The brilliant white stars were countless. As she stared out longingly at them, she couldn't help wishing desperately that she were one of them. _One among thousands_, she thought wistfully, resting her chin on her knees. _That's all I've ever wanted to be. Just one star like all the rest of them. Not some great big meteor that sticks out like a sore thumb. Just because I'm the daughter of the famous Harry Potter, everyone thinks I'm some sort of great witch. They all expect so much from me! But I'm not great. Not at all. I'm a lousy Potter._

She brooded for a little while longer, until a thunderous clapping and applause broke her contemplative mood. There was a sound of hands clapping, teeth whistling, and voices congratulating. It seemed to be coming from the common room. Wonder what all the commotion was, she rose slowly from her window ledge, her bare feet pattering softly against the cold stone floor. There were rugs in the room, of course, but not between the beds where she was walking. She had just stepped onto the scarlet ***what else?*** -colored rug at the foot of her bed when she heard the hollow sound of something hitting carved-out stone. What on earth could produce such a sound? She looked behind her, where the sound had come from. Her wand, which had been lying on her bed protruding slightly, was now on a patch of stone behind her ankles and next to the bottom of the bed. But why did it sound hollow? Curious, she turned and knelt to the spot, picking up her wand.

"Lumos," she murmured, tapping it against the stone. It was a spell Professor Granger had taught her privately. She held it on the floor long enough to give it a rich, luminescent glow, and pulled it away again. Something had been carved hastily into the floor, but there was too much dust in the letters to read them properly. This she quickly dusted away with her other hand. Now the light poured into these letters, presenting them to her eyes. She traced them with her fingertip.

"HJP," she read thoughtfully. She spoke in a voice so soft, there was no conceivable way for anyone else to hear it. "Those are Dad's initials. This must have been his bed too when he went to school. Oh no…another legacy I'm supposed to fulfill. I get his scar, his House, and now his bed? This is so unfair! Wait a moment…" ***…and the author just realizes that the boys and girls dormitories are kept separate, and that readers might wonder why Harry's bed was in the girl's dormitory, and feels really stupid. Well, let's just pretend the rooms switched or something over the years, cuz I don't feel like rewriting it ;)*** These were, of course, simply her thoughts as she thought them. They were just spoken aloud. Her eyebrows knitted in slight confusion and wonder, she tapped her wand against the stone where the letters were carved. Again that hollow, echoing sound. This time, though, she noticed pencil-thin lines around the letters in a rectangular shape. There was definitely something beneath the floor. Now she had to figure out how to get at it.

Abby toyed with her wand between her fingers for a moment, silently musing. In her mind's eye she was flipping through her Standard Book of Spells for a charm that might help. This was clearly a secret little cove that required advanced magic beyond her years. Still, a basic spell was worth a try. Shrugging with a "here goes nothing" attitude, she pointed her wand at the letters and muttered the first spell that came to mind:

"Alohomora!" She didn't expect this to work. Not in the least. She had only said it as a blind shot in the dark while she tried to come up with something better. After all, who would lock up something as obviously secret as this when a simply "alohomora" would open it?

Her father, apparently. The word was barely out of her mouth when the box-shaped lines around the initials faded away-along with the stone in that area. It was like the lines withdrew from themselves, like they were being drawn on but in reverse. The stone dissipated completely, leaving a little cubby open for Abby. It was like an open box made of the same gray stone as the rest of the floor. Inside sat a fat, rugged-looking book. This made her curious. Gingerly she pulled the book out and blew softly on the cover to remove the dust. It looked old, but not by hundreds of years. The forest-green cover was tattered and worn, especially around the corners, and it bore no title. The pages on the inside were yellowed, torn, and a bit crinkled. It had obviously been used quite often, an object that had been referred to time and time again. It was also clear as crystal that it had once belonged to her father.

Now thoroughly enchanted by the mystery of this book, Abby sat on the frigid cold stone with her legs crossed and dropped it into her lap. She completely ignored the fact that the so-called "secret" cubby was left wide open for anyone to get into and see. This had her complete attention now. She carefully lifted the cover to reveal the first page.

"_September 19 _[it read]

Well, hello. This is going to be a bit strange for me, since I've never kept a journal or diary or anything like this before. But Hagrid bought me this in Diagon Alley. Said I should write in it and keep track of my time at Hogwarts, and that it might be interesting to look back on years from now. So hello to my future self! This girl I met on the train here - Hermione? - showed me how to hide this so no one would find it. Even if they did, they wouldn't be able to open it. Only my wand can open it. Or a wand like mine. I don't exactly remember. Anyway, Hermione's really smart. She knows how to do loads of spells already, and she's getting top marks in all her classes. Ron, a boy I met on the train, says she's too smart for her own good. I wonder if that's possible.

Hogwarts is incredible! It's our third week here, and it gets more interesting every day. I don't care very much for the staircases, though. They're so confusing! And tricky. I'm still learning their tricks, or trying to, anyway. But it's a lot more fun here than grammar school was. And I have friends!

Dudley never let me have friends before. Ron is super nice. His family is full of wizards, so he knows all about this stuff. We've got flying lessons tomorrow. Everyone's going crazy over it. Can you believe they're actually going to show us how to fly-on _broomsticks? _I mean, I knew witches rode broomsticks, but that was only on Halloween. And it was just superstition. I never imagined I'd be riding _with _them! Anyway, it feels like everyone already knows how to do it. Hermione's been reading all sorts of books on broom flying, and Ron says he used to fly with his brothers. He says he'll help me out. It's a bit scary, but it's all so much fun, too. Magic is a lot harder than I thought it would be. It's not all just wand-waving and saying silly words. There's a lot more to it, and you know, there's more use for it in the end. 

Oh, I love it here. Malfoy is a horrible classmate, and I think one of my teachers hates me, but I've got my friends, and I'm having loads more fun here than I've ever had before in my life. For the first time, I really feel like I'm home."

So Professor Snape had hated her father, too? Abby was now thoroughly absorbed in this book. It was like finding a kindred spirit who really understood her, like he was no longer her father. He was just Harry, a young boy her age who could relate to her troubles. Of course, it wasn't exactly the same. She hadn't grown up with Muggles, alone, friendless, and orphaned. But then, that gave her a deeper appreciation for what she _did _have. She turned the page, eager to see if Harry had ever experienced troubles like the one she was having with Elijah.

For the next hour or so, the noise in the common room was completely forgotten.


	11. Harry's Secret-Keeper

*dedicated to a certain friend of mine ;) who keeps begging me to post more.  Are yeh happy now?  LOL*

"Sweetheart?" November asked gently, leaning against the inner post of the doorway.  "You look exhausted.  Why don't you come in and relax?"  Relax?  He hardly knew the meaning of the word.  She had managed to keep him from the ministry for a full two months, but that didn't mean he'd stopped working.  He was still trying to develop charms to cure the Unforgivable Curses along with a young girl named Sarah Ritter, but he had a million other jobs as well.  The Order of the Phoenix was trying to track down Voldemort so they could establish a full-fledged battle.  At the same time they were working toward making the Ministry as safe and protected as Hogwarts School or Gringotts Bank.  This required an ounce of knowledge of advanced magic, but it was mostly ancient magic dating back to the time of Merlin.  Harry found himself miserably regretting the long naps he'd taken in Professor Binns' class.  He had been pouring over books for weeks now, some as old as the founders of Hogwarts, and some written fully in Latin, all for some sort of spell that could aid the cause.  He had spent the past three hours of this evening alone in his study, struggling through a book called "By Merlin's Beard: A Millennium of Magic".

He sighed deeply, a breath that started in the very pit of his stomach from exhaustion, and set the heavy book that had been lying on his lap down on the floor.  "Oh, it's no use.  I just don't know enough Latin or Old English."  November smiled to herself and moved over to the chair where Harry was sitting.  He had laid his glasses atop the glass table beside him and was now gently massaging his temples.  He was the picture of overworked.  In a way it was almost endearing.  She stepped up behind him and, reaching her arms over the back of his chair, placed her hands on each of his shoulders.  She began to lightly grind her fingers into his shoulder blades, knowing he must have gotten some sort of kink there from having sat in the same position for so long.  He couldn't complain.  Rather, he closed his eyes and eased himself into the massage, allowing himself a soft groan of comfort.

            "Maybe you should look into taking classes or something.  Isn't Percy taking Latin over in Italy?" she suggested softly.  "You could ask them if they'll send you the material by owl.  I mean, you don't need to speak it.  Just read and write it, am I right?  Anyway, it's getting late.  And do you know what tomorrow is?"  Harry placed his hands on hers, almost refusing to let her go.  He didn't want to know what tomorrow was.  He didn't want to take a Latin class, or read those books, or work for the Ministry.  All he wanted at that moment was to be in the dark library with dozens of candles lit all around, such as it was now, and be with the most beautiful woman he'd ever known.  He left his eyes closed, lost in his own fantasy.

            "Mmm, no," he murmured, barely even awake.  "What's tomorrow?"  November wondered if she should be angry with this.  How could he have forgotten?  She knew he'd been working for the Ministry and the Order, and that lives hung in the balance, but why did he have to put so much weight on his own shoulders in the first place?  Wasn't his family supposed to be more important?  She narrowed her eyes at him (though he couldn't see her) and withdrew her hands.

            "Tomorrow," she said curtly, "is your daughter's birthday.  November 16th.  How could you have forgotten?"  Harry's eyes flew open with guilt.  He sat straight up and turned around so quickly he nearly snapped his neck.  How _could _he have forgotten?  She moved quietly to sit beside him, not daring to look at him, and the guilt swelled in his heart like a balloon that just wouldn't pop.  He watched her lower her head to look at her hands, mentally scolding himself for his mistake.  There was something in those perfectly smooth hands, something white he could just barely see.  Her hair spilt over her shoulders as she stared at the white thing.  He wondered what it was, but didn't dare question it.

"Oh…oh November, honey, I'm so sorry," he apologized quickly.  "I've been working on all these things and I hardly remember what day it is.  Please love, lo siento.  Lo siento muchísimo, y te promete, nunca jamás-"  ***trans: I'm sorry.  I'm so very sorry, and I promise, never again-" ***  She lifted her head to match his eyes, her own eyes flashing in slight rage.  He could tell she really didn't want to be angry.  Her nature was too gentle for that.  But she was upset, and she had every right to be.

"You can't expect a little Spanish to get you out of this one," she said quietly.  He swallowed hard.  "And besos aren't going to do it, either.  ***besos = kisses***  Now I know Mr. Fudge had been working you awfully hard lately, and I know the Order expects a lot from you too, but you have your priorities.  Family is more important than work.  If you treat your daughter like she means nothing to you, you can expect her to act the same way towards you."

Little by little he noticed the hostility ebbing out of her voice.  She left the white things in one hand, and wrapped her other arm around his arm to prove she still loved him.  He linked his fingers around hers, and she squeezed his hand in return.  He took this as a sign of his forgiveness, though he knew he still had quite a bit of work to do.

"Harry," she continued, "you've worked so hard to make this family work.  When we were married, you made every effort to ensure I was safe.  You bought us a house in a bit of a secluded area so You-Know-Who would find it hard to find us.  When he…when he tried to get to Abby, you must have called in a hundred favors to make him back off and to move us into a safer home.  You've done everything for us.  I know you don't want to ruin that.  Now, the Ministry can wait."  She picked up the heavy, dusty book he'd been reading and dropped it to the floor.  "Abby sent us an owl yesterday.  I suggest you read it and write her a reply.  Don't worry about her birthday gift.  Seamus and I were in Hogsmeade the other day and we found her the most beautiful owl.  He's a barn owl, golden tan with a little tuft of white under his beak.  He hasn't got a name yet-I thought we'd let her name it.  But you'd do well to mention him in your letter.  I'm having him send it to her."  She slid one of the things from her hand into his lap.  It was a piece of rolled-up parchment with the Hogwarts seal on it for a delivery address.  He started to unroll it, but her hand placed heavily on his stopped him.

"Wait-there's more."  He gave her an inquisitive look as she pulled out the other item.  It was a plain white card, small and completely unmarked.  It looked eerily familiar, but how he recognized it he couldn't be sure.  Was it perhaps a birthday card that he had to sign?  No, she looked far too terrified of it.  Her eyes were two large amber spheres; her face had paled slightly, and the fingers that clutched the card were trembling. _Great Merlin, _he thought, taking the card from her, _she hasn't been this afraid of post since…_A wave of ugly comprehension flooded over him.  His eyes snapped up to look at her.

"It's not…" he trailed off, the tone of his voice dropping to a low murmur.  She nodded.

"It is.  Another letter from 'The Friend of the Foe'.  It's got the Killing Curse on it, just like the others.  This is the third one this month, and to be perfectly honest…Harry, I'm scared."  This much was obvious to him.  Was this the reason, the real reason, she didn't want to get terribly angry with him over Abby's birthday?  He could feel her clinging tightly to his arm, as though doing so would somehow protect her.  He felt a surge of power inside him at this.  She was going to him for protection, and at that point that was all he wanted to give her.  He pressed the palm of his hand gently against the side of her face, running it softly down her neck and around her shoulders until she was tucked safely in his embrace.

"Em, it's all right.  Fudge says they're very close to finding whoever's been sending them.  You're okay here with me.  I won't let anything hurt you, I promise.  And Abby's just fine at Hogwarts.  Hagrid used to tell me that if you ever needed something kept safe, Hogwarts is the best place to keep it.  So you know she's perfectly safe," he told her soothingly.  He wanted to make her feel more comfortable.  November was having none of this.  She pushed his arm away impatiently, though still clutching to his other arm like some sort of lifeline.

"It's not me or Abby I'm worried about," she said shortly.  "It's you.  Everyone knows it's you You-Know-Who is after.  Not me, not Abby.  You.  Because you lived.  You dared to survive the curse that should have killed you, and you fought his allies and won.  The name Potter has a bitter taste on his tongue because of you.  I know it's not a child that's doing this.  Murder is not child's play.  This is something a Death Eater would do, and Lord knows they're not easy to put into prison.  More than likely they'll claim to be under the Cruciatus Curse or something.  You've got to put an end to this.  Please.  Let me be your Secret-Keeper."

The words came as a surprise to him.  November?  Be _his _Keeper?  They had talked about doing it before, but never separately.  Never had she suggested that he alone get a Keeper.  Now that he thought about it, it made more than a little more sense to do that.  Voldemort wasn't after both of them as he had been after his parents.  He was only after him.  But then, ten years ago he had proved to be after Abby as well.  So should November be responsible for the both of them?  _Could _she?  Should they pull Abby out of school to do it?  A thousand thoughts made his head swim.  He leaned his head back against the armchair and sighed.

"All right.  I'll think about it," he said, which was more than he'd said to her about it before.   


	12. November 16th

Abby found herself in much better spirits the next morning. She awoke, yawned, and stretched out luxuriously in bed. The sun was already fully awake, and came splashing in through the window and over her sheets. It was a particularly chilly morning. She snuggled deeply beneath the quilts for a moment, savoring the delicious feeling of just waking up and having no particular thing to do, nowhere really to go. A smile crept across her face. _November 16th, _she thought, forcing herself out of bed. _My birthday. Wonder if anyone remembered. _***does anybody else do that? I do!*** She jumped into a loose pair of blue jeans and shrugged into a red knit sweater, hoping it would offer some sort of protection against the chill. With one sleepy foot in front of the other, she plodded down into the common room.

No one was there save for Paul, who had decided to stay and wait for her. Everyone else was already at breakfast. He, however, sat patiently in one of the armchairs facing the dormitories. He smiled when he saw her and stood up quickly, as though there had been pins and needles on the seat.

"Good morning, Abby. Happy birthday," he greeted her. She mumbled some sort of "thank you" in return as he kissed her cheek. Abby, like her mother, was not much of a morning person. It took either a lot of good food or some great conversation to wake her up in the morning, and this was not the first morning she was the last one up. Luckily breakfast on the weekend wasn't until 11. Otherwise she might have starved.

Paul, with an impish smile, straightened up suddenly and crooked his arm as an 18th century gentleman might have done. Abby giggled softly at this gesture, but snaked her arm around his anyway. He tended to be goofy like this quite often. She was very used to it by now, and sometimes, like now, even enjoyed playing along. The two cut a comical figure as they walked, stiff-backed and arm-in-arm, down the halls of Hogwarts to the Great Hall. Even Professor Sands had to chuckle to himself when he passed them. This was the sort of attention Abby didn't mind receiving. In fact, she rather enjoyed it. 

There was nothing different about the autumn decorations littered all over the Great Hall, of course, but since it was her birthday Abby was looking at them through different eyes. Paul walked her to her usual seat beside him, and they sat down together for breakfast. Lilith, a fellow first year Abby had come to befriend, struck up a conversation with her almost immediately. That was one of the things she liked so much about her-she was very easy to talk to. Anytime they seemed to run out of things to talk about, she could bring up a new topic in the drop of a hat. It seemed they could talk for hours at a time and never tire of each other. Paul tried hard not to be jealous. After all, Abby was like his little sister. He had to tend her needs, and she desperately needed a best girl friend she could spend hours with giggling late into the night. Lilith, talkative and faithful, was perfect for that. Abby was wide-awake in minutes.

"Oh my god, can you be-_lieve _the homework Snape's given us for the weekend?" she exclaimed incredulously, handing her friend the plate of bacon. Abby accepted it, hardly paying attention to what she was dumping on her plate. She was more concerned with the conversation that had been stirred up. She nodded vigorously.

"Oh I know-it's impossible! We have to pick out _three _potions, clear out of the blue, and research their origin, history, exact formulas, ingredients, how they're made, where the ingredients come from…on _five feet_ of parchment! His class is rubbish, anyway. No matter what I do, it never seems to be enough. ***cough cough, Conlan, cough cough*** Besides, I'm awful at Potions. It's worse than Arithmancy! If you make a little mistake in Professor Vector's class, you get marked off and that's that. But if you get it wrong in Potions…did you hear what Snape did to Cassy's toad the other day? Shrank it, just like that! Lucky she got it right. It could have killed the poor thing. Lily, I swear, sometimes I wonder if that man's brain gets enough oxygen."

Lily laughed out loud, covering her mouth with the back of her hand so as not to spit bits of waffle across the table. "I know what you mean. Potions isn't exactly my class, either. I'm much better at Charms. Did you see my feather the other day? It just sprang up like it was on springs or something! It was really wicked. And you, you're really good at Transfiguration. You're always getting us extra points for knowing some spell none of us have ever heard of."

This certainly helped to lift Abby's spirits. If she ever doubted her abilities, she just had to go to Transfiguration class. She enjoyed the class-the only one she could really say that about-and everyone knew she was always getting top marks in it. And it wasn't as though Professor Granger favored her because she was a family friend. She had, on more than one occasion, given points to other House members, even Slytherins, if they got the right answer (or so she heard). These extra compliments really made her feel better about herself. _Maybe I _can _be a Potter, after all, _she thought with an accomplished smile.

She opened her mouth to thank Lily, but before any words came the room was suddenly filled with a noisy fluttering of wings beating. Owl post. The first time she'd heard this it had scared the living daylights out of her. Now it was just routine. She looked up at the flurry of owls, scanning the ceiling for a fluff of white she could recognize as Hedwig. Packages dropped all around her, but she saw no sign of her beloved family pet.

Quite suddenly a bit of parchment dropped into her lap, carried by an owl that stayed put after its delivery. That was odd. It looked like a regular barn owl, the kind the school used, but those always dropped their mail and flew off for the owlery straight away. They never stuck around like this. Puzzled, she examined it more closely as she unrolled the parchment. It was a little younger than the school owls, she noticed, and there was a peculiar patch of white tucked just below its beak that distinguished it from the others. Her eyes returned to the attached letter.

"Abigail:

Hello! Glad to hear you're enjoying yourself. I know Professor Snape can be a pain, but try not to take it personally. Just do the best you can, and if there are any problems please try to tell Headmaster Dumbledore. He'll know best what to do.

A Slytherin? Well, I'm not sure. I never knew any "kind and generous" Slytherins myself. ***watch he does in book five, making me look like an idiot*** But if Professor Dumbledore thinks he's all right, then he might be. I suppose there's nothing wrong with being friends with him. Just watch your back; you never know what he could be hiding. And please don't let him get in the way of your schoolwork, or have you breaking any school rules. Have fun, but don't get carried away.

Yes, Professor Granger told me all about your accomplishments in her class. Very well done! Now I know it's awkward for you to call her that, since you've known her for so long as Mrs. Finnigan, but it's a Hogwarts thing. Something about the original founders and maiden names…I'm not exactly sure, but it's a sign of respect. Thank you for following it.

Do you like the owl? He's yours. Happy birthday! He hasn't got a name yet. We thought you might like to name him.

Let us know how things are going. We look forward to seeing you soon!

Love,

Mom and Dad"

She sighed and set the parchment down at the table. Lily reached over and snatched it up, but Abby hardly noticed. It was her father who had written it, no doubt about that. The letter had a definite, slightly arrogant tone to it. It sounded as though he were talking to a co-worker or an adult friend, not his own daughter. At the same time there was also a bit of a protective undertone that suggested he still greatly feared for her safety. Yes, that sounded just like him. Short, sweet, and to the point, with little emotion that was forced. She drew the owl toward her, trying to change her focus of attention.

Lily read the letter over quickly. "Ooh, neat, your own owl! What are you going to name him?" Abby had been wondering the same thing. She ran her fingertips thoughtfully along his glossy feathers, tickling him affectionately on the spill of white under his beak. He blinked slowly, stretched his wings out wide, and hooted loudly in delight. He was sweet, no doubt about that. But what to name him? She began to muse aloud.

"Hm…well, he's got this spot of white that kind of makes him different. Makes him special. It also reminds me of Hedwig. _She _was named after a famous witch, so maybe I'll name _him _after a famous wizard."

Lily chuckled at this suggestion. "So name him Harry. He's just about as famous as they come." Abby frowned, though she knew Lily was only saying this for the reaction. Even the owl whose name was in question seemed indignant about such an idea. He flapped his wings and shook his head disapprovingly. This made both of them giggle.

"No, see? Even _he _thinks that's a terrible idea. No, he's young, so I think I'll name him after a young wizard. Maybe one of the only two wizards to ever die at Hogwarts. Yeah, that sounds right…I'll call him Cedric. It's a good name, and Dad'll be pleased. Not that I'm doing it for him, of course," she added hastily, "I just like the name."

Cedric seemed satisfied. He gave a sharp hoot similar to that which he gave when he was pet, nipped at her finger affectionately, and flew off. Abby watched him go, smiling to herself. A pet owl. Now that was probably the best gift her parents could have given her. She had something to take care of, something that needed her more than she needed it. Maybe her father was rotten at putting his love for her into words, but what he did for her was incredible at times and his actions spoke louder than his words.

She gave another sigh, this time of satisfaction, and turned to return to her meal. Only that wasn't what she found. As she'd been busy with the letter from her parents, more packages had fallen in front of her. There were an assortment of them, all of which were labeled with the names of her friends and family. One from Paul, one from Lily, one from Hannah, and the Finnigans, and the Weasleys…but one in particular stood out. It was a letter, just a plain little white card with the words, "To Abby, from Elijah" written across it in black ink. Her heart jumped. Elijah had remembered her birthday? But she hadn't seen him in weeks, not since Professor Snape moved their seats in Potions so they sat at opposite ends of the rather large room. It seemed he had noticed the new camaraderie between the opposing House members, and his new life mission was to keep them apart. But at least he'd stopped the "Potter" comments. 

Curious and bewildered at what he could have written, Abby opened the card and read its contents.

"Dear Abby,

Thought I'd forgotten? No such luck-happy birthday! Meet me by the lake this afternoon after tea. I want to give you your present in person. Don't worry-Snape won't bother us. I have special permission from Dumbledore. I told him we wanted to work on that Potions assignment, and we already have our research done but want to write our essays outdoors. The fresh air will keep our minds clear, I told him. And he wrote us up a pass. ***do they give out passes at Hogwarts? Oh well, they do now!*** So bring your books, just in case!

See you then,

Elijah"

Abby couldn't wait.


	13. The Locket of Pitie

            _"Meet me by the lake," he says_, thought Abby, picking her way through the wet marsh.  _It's a huge lake!  Where on earth am I supposed to meet him?  _She clutched her cloak closer to her, since the breeze coming off the lake was much chillier than that _of _the lake.  Inside the Gryffindor tower they were all probably playing Exploding Snap * **stupid question, because it's been ages since I read the books-what exactly _is _Exploding Snap? *** Or chess by the fire…but Elijah was here.  Somewhere, hiding along the edge of the school lake, was her best friend.  With this solitary thought in mind, she plodded on, occasionally casting his name into the wind.  

            Just as she had stepped into a particularly wet patch of grass, she was suddenly plunged into darkness.  Startled, she froze right where she was and drew in a sharp breath.  Her senses began to come back to her.  Two young, warm hands had been clasped over her eyes, and a teasing voice brought the words "Guess who?" to her ear.  She gave an exasperated sigh, prying the hands away from her face.

            "Elijah!" she hissed, whipping around on the balls of her heels to face her attacker.  "Don't _do _that!  You scared the I-don't-know-_what­ _out of me!"  Elijah stood in front of her, his hands behind his back and an impish grin across his face.  Annoyed as she was, she was a bit relieved to know it had been him and not a complete stranger.  After all, she didn't wander around by the lake very often, and wasn't sure exactly what sorts of creatures lived there.  He laughed softly, mostly to himself.  

            "Well hello to you too," he said with a smile.  Once a smile had broken out across _her _face, he gave her cheek a friendly kiss and offered out his hand.  "Come on, let's go sit down.  I want to give you your birthday present."  Abby's cheeks flushed with red as she stammered out that he didn't have to get her anything, really.  That didn't seem to matter much to him.  He simply shook his head, continued to smile, and grasped hold of her hand.  She didn't argue; she _couldn't _argue.  She was too stricken with surprise and curiosity to say much of anything at all.  He was being very devious, very mysterious, and this struck a strong chord of intrigue with her.  He wouldn't tell her why he'd gotten her a birthday present (or how he'd remembered that today was even her birthday), he wanted to meet down by the lake, away from everybody…she couldn't help but wonder what was going on behind those two shimmering blue eyes of his.  But he wouldn't say a word.  All she could do was follow as he led her around the shore, farther from the school and closer to the Forbidden Forest.  She bit her lip anxiously.  This wasn't quite the romantic ("romantic" translating to "pretty, nice") atmosphere she'd expected.  Exactly how close to the Forbidden Forest did he plan on taking her?

            Finally he stopped, just a few yards from the Forest.  He'd set up a very picnic-style area on the grass, a short distance from the shore, where they could work.  An immensely tall oak tree threw a shadow over a blanket he had laid on the ground.  This was covered with enough open books, rolls of parchment, ink wells, blotters and quills to make it look like they were really going to work.  She smiled.  He'd really gone all-out to cover up their reason for being together, which was really nothing more than just to _be _together.  She gave his hand a squeeze as if to say "thank you" and walked on her own toward the little work area.  He followed close behind.

            "Elijah, I-this is really awesome," she exclaimed, allowing her legs to collapse neatly beneath her as she sat Indian-style on the old blanket.  He nodded to say, "you're welcome" and knelt down next to her.  She leaned back against the trunk of the tree and sighed with content.  Even though it was the middle of November and the temperature was lower than she would have liked, it was still a beautiful day.  It was Saturday, she had no classes, the sun was grinning and she was finally spending some much-needed time with a Slytherin with whom she had come to be close friends.  Above all that, it was her birthday.  She was now fully 12 years old, and not a single friend or family member had forgotten.  Even Professor Dumbledore had winked and wished her well on her way outside.  What wasn't there to be content about?

            This bright and optimistic frame of mind, though unspoken, washed off on Elijah.  He smiled broadly as he sat himself comfortably next to her, reaching behind him for something.  He held it in front of Abby for her to see.  *** he's gonna propose!  lol *** It was a long, slender box, covered in gold paper and topped with a floppy red bow.  The ribbon around it crossed both sides, one side in green, the other side in silver.  _Our House colors, _Abby thought in surprise.  _Never thought I'd see _them _together on school grounds.  _He paused before handing it to her, like he wanted her to notice the particular colors.  There was no _not _noticing.

            She accepted the gift and lifted its lid, since the box had been wrapped in two separate parts.  She gasped when she saw what lie inside.  It was a chain, a beautiful, silver link chain that was long enough to be a necklace.  It was extremely light and delicate, but comprised of the most brilliant shade of silver she'd ever seen.  It could have very easily passed for white gold, and it was so bright it seemed to glow.

            "It's for your locket," he explained as she lifted it gently out of the box.  "Her locket" was a heart-shaped charm she wore every day, something she'd had since before she could remember.  The locket itself was beautiful.  It was roughly the size of a Sickle, with a vine design etched all around it.  In the center was the symbol of a painstakingly detailed red rose.  Inside the locket, unbeknownst to anybody but herself, she kept two pictures: one of her mom, the other of her dad.  When she was much younger there had been photos of them inside as adults, because those had always been in there and they'd provided her a sense of safety.  Now she had photos of them when they were her age to remind her that they _had _been her age once.  However, it had never had a chain, so she'd always worn it on an old, chewed-up shoelace.  This was definitely much better.  She thanked him profusely for it, but he wasn't finished.

            "I noticed you wearing it the first day I met you, but I never had much of a chance to compliment you on it.  It's really quite beautiful, but I wonder…do you know what it is?"  She gave him a bewildered look.

            "A locket?"  He chuckled softly, reaching behind her to untie the shoelace that held the delicate piece of jewelry.

            "Well of course, but that symbol, the way it's carved…it's very old, of course, so only the oldest wizarding families know of it.  My parents told me about it.  I mean, my father…well, he-he was…Muggle-born…but my mother knew.  She explained it.  It all goes back to the days of the first wizards, even before Merlin.  It's a very old tale, legend really.  See, supposedly there was this wizard named Durkensede who began to discover the Dark Arts.  Developed most of them himself, they say.  Very evil, about as evil as Vol- I mean, You-Know-Who.  Set about destroying witches and wizards left and right…until he met Astia.  For some reason, maybe because he hadn't become evil enough to stop himself, he fell in love with her.  He wouldn't dare harm a wizard that she was friendly with.  Luckily Astia wasn't nearly as evil as he was.  Evil, yes, but not so much as he.  So to every wizard she liked she gave a rose, just one simple red rose, to tell Durkensede he couldn't kill them.  She also carved a design-_this _design-into a piece of wood and laid it outside their home as a signal that they were untouchable.  As time went on, years, decades, centuries passed, it came to be known as the Symbol of Pitié – the symbol of mercy.  Anyone touched by it would be saved from harm.  A bit of old superstition perhaps, but…goodness, I thought you would know.  I mean, you're a _Potter_.  I would think _you'd _have some of the purest blood there is."

            Abby toyed with her locket thoughtfully as he told her the story, hardly noticing when he slid the shoestring off and slipped the silvery chain on.  The symbol of mercy…why _hadn't _her parents told her that?  They both came from wizarding families…granted, they'd lost their parents at very early ages, but there had to be other relatives they could have asked.  Her mother grew _up _with wizards!  But no, they had always been very evasive whenever she asked questions about her necklace.

            "Maybe, but…sometimes it feels like I live with Muggles.  My father's got a thing with 'overusing' magic for some reason I'll never understand.  If there's a Muggle way of doing something, he'll go for it, even if it's harder.  Besides, I'm not a Potter.  Not really.  I may have pure blood, but I'm just about the plainest witch you'll ever meet," she said with a sigh.  * **is anyone else annoyed with her whining?  LOL! ***  Elijah looked at her for a moment, not speaking, only staring.  Something about the airy way she said that, plus the fact that she wouldn't look at him when she spoke, suggested that this was not an issue to take lightly.  He smoothed away the hair that had flown over her eyes in a vain attempt to comfort her.  She replaced it just as quickly as he had moved it away.  It was the only way she could think of covering the Phoenix mark on her forehead, and as of late it had become darker than ever. 

            "Not true.  I hear you're pretty bloody good at Transfiguration.  Your House has way more points than mine because Professor Granger's always giving them to you.  Anyway, this has nothing to do with your magic skills.  This has to do with a tradition dating back thousands of years.  Not many know about it…it _did _all occur in France, after all.  My family's from there-well, my mum's side, anyway.  I only wondered if you knew.  I've seen the symbol, but I've never seen a _locket _of Pitié.  Very unusual…do you keep anything inside?"

            He reached over for it to see, but she pressed it close to her chest so he couldn't get at it.  Her cheeks flushed with a royal red color.  What if he saw the photos that she kept in it?  What would he say?

            "Yeah, I…they're very personal," she defended quickly.  To her surprise, he didn't argue.  He withdrew his hand with an apologetic, "Ah, I understand," and went on to a different subject.  She strongly appreciated this, and though she didn't say it, it showed in her eyes and he could see it.

**~* hey guys, thanks for the fantastic reviews!!  You're all _awesome…_*cries because no one's reading and responding to the A/Ns she puts in bold*, hahaha…umm…yeah, this story might take some time; you're more than welcome to read my others in the meantime.  And as you've noticed, I'm in the process of changing Devon's name to Elijah, only because that's my new favorite name.  ****J****  Sorry for the confusion, and thanks again! *~**

            ~* Oh, and incidentally, a special thanks to my Ronniekins friend (would you get upset if I just started putting your name up here???), for the little mistakes I made – thanks for reading! *~


	14. Leave the Order of the Phoenix?

            The rather small group of people, all garbed in brilliant white robes, were deeply immersed in their research when November came storming in.  The Order of the Phoenix was still working on charms and incantations to make the Ministry of Magic as well protected as Hogwarts.  Ancient books covered the large, round table, along with rolls and rolls of parchment, all of their wands, and the several household objects they were experimenting with.  At the moment, Daniel Prewett ***yes, that name is a nice, healthy mix of "Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone" and "The Queen of the Damned" ****J***was reading aloud a particular passage on the logistics of Apparating, and several members were busily taking down notes.  November rushed into the kitchen, her arms full of letters and a very upset way about her.  She flung the stack down in the center of the table, sending the parchment flying.

            "I don't give a _damn _what you say anymore, Harry-I want a bloody Secret-Keeper!"  Harry looked up from his work immediately at this, completely startled.  November was clearly very distraught by the situation.  She was cursing, first off, and she was the least likely person he knew to do that, regardless of the problem.  The other indication was the most obvious: she had tears of frustration streaming down her cheeks, like a giant dam of an enormous river had just broken.  *...**and now you know where Abby's tearful sensitivity comes from*** She didn't even bother to try wiping them away.  A few wizards reached in to read the letters that had instilled in her such a sense of panic.

            "We've been getting these every day for a month now, and I've been pretty good about it.  I suggested we get a Secret-Keeper _more _than once, but you kept saying, 'no, _I _can protect us.  _I_ can keep us safe'.  And I went along with it, even though I was afraid.  Well, I've had it.  I'm not afraid anymore-I'm absolutely _terrified!  _These all came today, and they say the same thing-Avada Kedavra.  But this time they're worse.  Far worse.  You say you don't want to cut off contact with the outside world, well, I _do _think that 's worth our _lives!  _Go on, read one of them.  Just take a look."

            _Worth our lives? _thought Harry as, with wide eyes of bewilderment, he took one of the letters and opened it.  He recognized the material immediately - the message was written inside the same type of white card as all the other letters had been.  Just as before, "Avada Kedavra" was written in green, luminescent lettering…but this time, that wasn't all.  The curse was written on the top half of the card.  Beneath that was another message, written with the same green letters:  "Her life is in danger".  It looked hastily written, like it was a second thought tacked on after the original message had been written.  On the bottom half were words more like the way "Avada Kedavra" had been done:  "Abigail Mae Potter will die at Hogwarts".  Underneath was a picture.  Harry's stomach dropped at the sight of it.  It was a picture of someone in a black cloak (whose face was hidden by the hood) performing the Killing Curse on a young girl with a striking resemblance to Abby.  The authenticity of it was sickening.  If it was indeed Voldemort-or even a Death Eater-who had sent it, no doubt there was nothing done to doctor the photo.  The girl in the photo was undoubtedly dead.  His hands quivered as he held the note.  The other members of the Order were quiet, watching his reaction.  November had her arms folded across her chest as if to say, "There, you see?"

            "I want her out," he said in a voice so low only his wife could hear.  "I want her out of school.  Now.  I don't care how well she is protected.  Send an owl to Dumbledore.  Tomorrow morning we're taking the first train to Hogsmeade.  Send Hagrid one as well.  I want him to meet us there.  You and I are taking Abby out of school first thing tomorrow and bringing her home.  Then…"  He gave a great sigh.

            "Then Cornelius will perform the spell.  Who do you want for a Secret-Keeper?" he finished.

            It took a moment or two for his words to sink in, but when they did they hit hard.  The room erupted with the sounds of questions, protests, and a mad scramble to read whatever it was he'd read.  November most certainly hadn't expected this reaction.  Even she was too shocked to answer his question right away.  Her mouth just sort of opened and closed like a floundered fish.  The Order, though, wasn't nearly as quiet.

            "Harry, November, you can't be _serious_!" exclaimed an indignant Mandy Weasley.  "There is no greater protection Abby can have than at Hogwarts under the direction of the finest wizard the world has ever known!"  Harry gave another enormous sigh.  He lifted the glasses off his nose and set them on the table, gently massaging his face out of sheer exhaustion.  He couldn't even remember the last time he'd gotten a decent night's sleep.  That had been ages ago, back before so many lives had come to depend on him.  He'd never have guessed that one of those lives would be his daughter's.

            "Dumbledore was Headmaster while I was in school, too," he said quietly.  "Voldemort found me my very first year and attempted to murder me.  In my second year he nearly succeeded in killing Ron's sister Ginny, and in my sixth…well, you all remember that particular ordeal, and that passed right through the Ministry, too.  ***I'm just compensating for later books, that's all*** And-and when I was 14…with Cedric…Dumbledore may be great, but he's not omnipotent.  I will not allow my daughter to be subject to that sort of risk."

            Her ankles feeling suddenly weak, November sank into an empty chair beside Harry.  She stared at him, unblinking, as he continued to field questions of protest.

            "But a Secret-Keeper?" asked Daniel.  "Don't you think that's a little extreme?  I'm all for the idea of bringing her home, but if you get a Secret-Keeper you'll have to drop out of the Order.  I mean, because no one will be able to find you or anything.  We'd be losing one of our strongest members, and – I'm just not too keen on the idea."  There was a murmur of agreement around the table.  Harry Potter?  Leave the Order of the Phoenix?  That was absurd!  He had done so much for them that the scar, his trademark scar, just above his right eye had become their symbol of freedom.  They needed him on their side to help them fight.  Without him…Daniel shuddered at the thought.

            "Harry, there's going to be another battle very soon," interjected Nathan Phillips.  "We've been sensing that for weeks.  Without you, I don't think we'll be able to stop it from turning into an all-out war.  The Ministry doesn't stand a chance against the Death Eaters, and neither do we.  Not without you.  I hate to think what would happen if…if they took over the Ministry.  There would be chaos, nothing but chaos.  We – "

            "You will stand up strong," Harry interrupted coldly.  "The Order of the Phoenix has been defending the wizard world since before I was born.  You don't need me.  You have to stop relying on me so much.  In fact, I'm _forcing _you to.  I will help you as much as I can through whomever we choose as Secret-Keeper, but for any more than that you're on your own.  I trust your judgment.  I leave Dumbledore, who is far greater and more powerful than I, in charge.  My mind is made up.  No amount of arguing is going to change it."

            The table went silent as he spoke.  Mandy, who knew Harry better than anyone else there (with the sole exception of November, naturally), was surprised by the aged wisdom in his words.  He was only in his mid-30s, but already he spoke in the same sage tone as Dumbledore or even Merlin.  It had happened before, but only when he was completely serious, or when knowledge of experience was necessary.  It almost caused a twang of sympathy in her.  Clearly Harry was wise beyond his years, but only because he had seen more in the past 10 years alone than most people – including wizards – see in their entire lifetimes.  Not by choice but by force.

            November noticed his choice of words as well, but she didn't feel nearly as sympathetic about it.  She sniffled quietly as Harry went on to resume the conversation.  "Now then.  Daniel, where were you?" he said calmly, picking up his quill to go on with his notes.  Daniel, who was still shaken by the whole ordeal, slowly picked up his book to continue.  However, November wasn't having it.

            "How dare you turn me away with just a wave of your hand," she said through clenched teeth.  "Harry James Potter, you make me sick."  This threw the group more off-guard than Harry's declaration had.  It was Harry's turn to be too surprised to speak.  She threw him the coldest, cruelest glare she could muster before standing up sweeping the letters off the table, turning on her heels and storming out of the room.  He took in a sharp breath.  He had grown somewhat accustomed to her random mood swings as of late, owing to her pregnancy, but she had never blown up at him in front of others.  Besides which, what did he do wrong?

            He turned toward the rest of the Order.  "I hope you'll excuse me," he said, standing to follow his wife.  There was a general nod of agreement from everyone there.  What else could they do?  There was no point arguing him out of a Secret-Keeper; he seemed hell-bent on that one.  Maybe later on, once he had calmed down a little, they would try again.  Later, but not now.  Daniel, with quivering hands from shock, opened his book and tried to pick up on his notes.  It was a struggle to keep his voice from waving as well.

            November had gone into the living room, so Harry followed as close behind as he could.  He caught her just as she stepped into the room.

            "Em, what did I do?" asked Harry defensively.  She stopped abruptly in mid-step, as though she had just walked into a brick wall.  Something about what he had just said seemed not to sit right with her.  What had he done to offend her this way?  Whatever it was, he certainly hadn't meant it.  His ignorance appeared to upset her more than the unknown action.  She whirled around to face him, her hair whipping across her face so much it stung.  Her eyes had fierce electricity to them.  Immediately Harry knew he'd made a mistake.  _Way to go, _thought Harry to himself.  _You've just upset a Spanish woman.  Nothing left to do now but hope for the best and expect the worst._

"What did you do?" she hissed.  "Don't hide behind your flowery language.  You're not Dumbledore, nor are you the greatest wizard to ever live.  You're 34 bloody years old!  You're not God.  Voldemort isn't going to stop just because _you're _standing in the doorway.  You survived his murder curse once.  _Once!  _And only on a damn lucky chance.  I hate you for doing that, you know that?  '_I _don't want a Secret-Keeper because _I _had a bad experience with them.'  'Abby will be _fine _at Hogwarts.'  '_I_ can keep us safe.'  When it's in _your _best interests, you stop.  And then - and this is what really burns me – when you decide to step away from the spotlight, you act like you're doing some noble deed!  I just can't _believe _you lately, Harry!  No eres un héroe.  Tu eres solamente una persona.  ¡_Una _persona!  Una persona no se puede dejar Voldemort de controlando el mundo.  Y ¡no quiero tener un bébé con un hombre tanto egoísta cómo tú!"

            ***translation:  "You aren't a hero.  You're only one person.  _One _person!  One person can't stop Voldemort from taking over the world.  And I don't want to have a baby with a man as selfish as you!" – (psst, thanks Dair!)  And don't worry, my certain Ron worshipper friend (you know who you are)-the next chapter is Harry and November, but the one after is more with Abby  ;)***


	15. Blind faith

***chapter dedicated to Andria Lynn Defranc Potter-Snape***

All Harry could do was stare at her, gaping in disbelief at her words.  Spanish may not have been his first language, but after living with her as long as he had he was able to pick out a few choice words.  "Hombre egoísto" were two of them.  He watched the bitterly angry tears trickle down her cheeks in silence.  Anger rushed into his heart.  He could've very easily started yelling back at her, but he wondered if that was really the smartest thing to do.  After all, she was clearly exhausted.  She probably didn't mean half the things she was saying.

            "November, I thought you said you wanted a Secret-Keeper," he said as calmly as he could.  His voice was still laced with offense.  He was trying to end the argument, but apparently she was nowhere near finished.  In fact, the statement only served to upset her more.

            "Oh, so _now _you decide to reach out for help.  Now, when you realize that you can't be perfect.  You can't be God.  You know what your problem is, Harry?  _Orgullo_.  Stupid, stubborn, selfish pride.  I've always hated that about you.  Even back in school you had too much pride.  I've tried to look past it.  I've tried to think, well, he does good things and ought to be proud.  But this has gone entirely too far.  The whole world thinks you're the greatest wizard to ever set foot on this earth, and I think you've let it go to your head."

            Now it was Harry's turn to be angry.  He was trying to apologize, but she wasn't listening.  She was too busy complaining about her own problems to listen to one word he had to say.  He narrowed his eyes and stepped up to her.  Frustration coursed through his veins down to his hand, where he clutched a tight fist.  What little fingernails he had were digging sharply into his hand.  His fist was even beginning to tremble slightly.

            "You're not listening to me," he said slowly as if he were on the brink of breaking down.  "If anyone's being stubborn and proud it's you.  I'm trying, November, I really am!  For 12 goddamn years I've been _trying _to please you.  You wanted to get married – I proposed.  You wanted to have children – I went along with it.  You wanted to send Abby to Hogwarts despite all the pressure she would no doubt experience, and God help me I said yes!  I sacrificed everything in the world to make you happy, and that's not enough for you, is it?  You expected me to be perfect, and damn it Em I've tried.  But the minute I lose my footing and start slipping you pounce on me!  In spite of everything, all of this, I'm still trying to sacrifice my better judgment to give you what you want – and now you don't want it anymore?  For the past two months I've been trying not to upset you because of the baby.  I know you've been extra sensitive because of that.  But this has really gone too far."

            November couldn't believe what she was hearing.  Never, in all their years of marriage, had they ever fought like this.  His words stung more than she had expected them to.  "You bloody bastard," she said, surprising even herself.  "You don't want to take the fault so you blame it all on my being pregnant.  I don't believe you.  _You've _sacrificed for this marriage?!  I just got through telling you how fed-up I was with your ego, and you have the _audacity _to use _that _as your defense?!"

            "Wait a moment – _what _did you just call me?"  They were now mere inches away from each other.  She could see the red-hot coals burning in his eyes, but she couldn't have cared less.

            "You heard me.  I called you a goddamn selfish bastard, because that's what you've made yourself out to be."

            "Don't you _ever _call me that again!" Harry roared, breaking his fist and holding up his hand as if to hit her.  "I swear to God, if you ever even _think _of insulting me like that again, I'll – "

            "What?  Hit me?" asked November mockingly.  She narrowed her eyes as though daring him to do so.  "You wouldn't dare."

            "Try me," Harry seethed.  The intensity of his anger was overwhelming, and before he knew what he was doing his hand hit her cheek with smart _smack.  _Then came the anticlimax.  Silently he watched her as she held her hand to the spot where he'd slapped her.  His breathing continued to come heavily, like he'd been holding since the fight began.  She was too startled to say anything at all.  For a moment her only means of expression were the tears that sprang to her eyes.  Harry regretted the gesture the instant her eyes finally met his.  They reflected fear.  Pure, cold fear.  That was new.  She'd never been afraid of him before.  Afraid, yes, but never of him.  

            "You – you hit me," she said quietly, struggling with the words.  "I can't believe you actually…_hit _me.  What's happened to you, Harry?  You're not the man I married."  With that she covered her face with the back of her hand and raced crying out the door.  Harry couldn't believe himself.  He stared loathingly at his own hand.  _What _has _gotten into you? _he questioned himself.  Never, in all his 34 years, had he ever struck a woman – especially not his own wife.  He closed his eyes and sighed deeply.  This marriage was going to take much more than he thought it would.

~*~

            Harry ended the meeting of the Order abruptly, urging that they meet elsewhere for the moment and insisting that he'd be in touch.  Once they had all left, he set off to find November.  Knowing her as he did, she probably hadn't gone too far.  Sure enough, he stepped outside ad there she was, in their own backyard.  She was perched on one of the swings of the swing set he'd built for Abby years back.  She wasn't crying anymore.  Instead, she was staring listlessly down at the ground as her toes pushed her absently back and forth a few inches.  He drew in a deep breath and approached her.  Without waiting for an invitation or even an "okay", he sat on the swing beside her.

            "Thank you," he said to break the silence.  This brought about the exact reaction he'd intended: puzzled, she forced her eyes away from the ground and looked at him instead.

            "What for?  
  


            "For standing up to me," he explained.  He knew he had to choose his words carefully, and spoke as slowly as he could without sounding mentally disturbed.  "No, really.  I was thinking about what you said. You're right – I _have _been playing the role of hero a lot lately.  Not just to you, but to the Order, and to my daughter and my friends.  But they've all let me get away with it.  Actually, they sort of encourage it.  And I can't say I haven't enjoyed it…well, for the most part anyway.  You know, it's not easy being everyone's 'hero' all the time.  I just always thought that's what was expected of me and that's what I had to be.  Really, though, I've wanted to fall all along.  You gave me the chance to, and you were even willing to catch me, but I was too blind to see it.  Well, I'm falling now.  I can't do this anymore.  I just can't.  Everyone has their breaking point, November, and mine came when I hit you.  I know it doesn't make it right, but I guess what I'm trying to say is…I'm sorry."

            November continued to stare blankly at him for a second or two, absorbing his words.  Her face remained expressionless.  "I forgive you, but…I stand by what I said before.  You're not the man I married."  He grinned in a wild attempt to take the situation light-heartedly.

            "No, I'm really Severus Snape hidden by the disguise of Polyjuice Potion," he joked.  She was quiet, empty of even a hint of a smile.  He sighed for what felt like the thousandth time.  "Oh Em, you're not the woman _I _married, either.  People change, sweetheart, whether for the best or the worst.  There's nothing you can do to change that.  I would think the best thing to do is try to adapt to that.  I love you, and I'm willing to make this work if you are."  ***Damn imaginary characters and their quick-solve arguments…*** Finally he was able to get a reaction.  A dim smile crossed her face, causing him to smile in return.  She placed her hand gently on his.

            "I love you too.  Just…don't turn into someone you're not because the whole world wants you to.  I didn't marry Harry Potter.  Just Harry.  And…yes, yes I'm willing to make this work.  Of course I am.  I think – I _know_ – Abby's life is far more important than our little squabbles.  And…I really want a Secret-Keeper.  Those notes positively terrified me.  Even if it _is _just a random wizard – well, _you _saw those notes.  This is dark magic here, and I just don't feel safe."

            Harry closed his fingers around her hand.  "I understand.  And I'm going to swallow my pride and agree.  If this means that much to you, then…we'll get a Secret-Keeper.  But who?  It's got to be someone we really trust, without a doubt.  But they've got to be strong, too.  It's very likely Voldemort will do anything to find out who it is and get it out of them – even it means death.  Oh November, I hate to send out one of our very best friends on a suicide mission…" he trailed off.

            "Maybe we don't have to," said November thoughtfully.  "Come to think of it, maybe we shouldn't.  Harry, you said You-Know-Who – "

            "Say 'Voldemort', will you?  A name isn't going to hurt you."

            " – he'll be after our Secret-Keeper," she went on with complete disregard of the interruption.  "Well, so who do you think he'll go after?  The Weasleys and the Finnigans…probably Dumbledore if he has the nerve; he knows we're close to him…maybe the Thomases…certainly the Longbottoms, they've become terribly powerful…and of course everyone else in the Order.  Point is, he'll go after our allies.  Or at least, those he _thinks _are our allies.  No, we've got to use one of our enemies.  He'd never think to chase them."

            Harry's jaw dropped.  He could scarcely believe what she was asking him to do.  He could only think of one real enemy he had, and there was no chance he was asking him to keep the secret.  "_Malfoy?_" he exclaimed incredulously.  "You're joking!  We can't trust _him_!  He'd give us in to Voldemort on a silver platter!"

            "No, no, not Draco Malfoy.  He's a Death Eater; that's crazy.  No, I'm talking about someone who's loathed you for ages, but saved your life in your first year at Hogwarts.  Do you know why he did that?  Because he was obliged to, because of his past.  Now he spits on your name and the whole world knows it, but he works beside you because it's an obligation.  Not because of his past; because of Dumbledore.  He wouldn't dare give us away – Dumbledore wouldn't let him.  Think of it – it's perfect."

            Harry nearly fell off the swing.  "You don't mean…"  November nodded solemnly.

            "I most certainly do – Severus."


	16. Her own Dark Mark

November 2 

Thursday

            I can't stand this.  I really don't think I can handle much more of this.  Sometimes, to be perfectly honest, I hate being Harry Potter.  Ron's still not speaking to me because of the whole Goblet incident.  He's convinced I put my name in there somehow!  I would never do that!  Doesn't he realize that Dumbledore would _know _if I put my name in?!  Hermione says it's because he's jealous that I get more attention than he does.  Well, he can have it!  I'd trade places any day.  No, no, no I wouldn't.  I wouldn't wish this on anybody, not even my worst enemy.  I wonder if things would be any different if my parents were still alive, and I hadn't survived that stupid curse.  Then I'd be like everyone else.  I'd be just Harry, not "famous Harry Potter with the rotten scar on his forehead that brandishes him as some great wizard that he's nowhere near being".  It's, I don't know, a bit like living under my parents' shadow sometimes.  I've never wished more that they were here, just because I get so tired of it all.  Yesterday Hermione and I tried a Vanishing Spell to get rid of some of it.  It worked, but it was too late.  Everyone already knows the story.  Plus, Ron walked in on us doing the spell, and he was _fuming.  *_**he was _livid_ – LOL Damion!!!***  He started ranting about me thinking I was so great, I didn't need the scar to prove it…I'm not sure exactly, but it hurt.  Quite honestly, if anyone's jealous it's me.

            "I can relate," said Abby softly, closing the diary and returning it to its hiding place.  Transfiguration was about to start.  "You _are _'just Harry' to me."

            For the past few weeks the diary had been her saving grace.  Classes weren't going nearly as well as they had been.  Since the Monday after her birthday, it seemed none of her spells went right.  The goblet she was supposed to transfigure into a pincushion shuddered the moment she pointed her wand at it, then shattered into a thousand pieces.  Her Befuddlement Potion made Elizabeth McKinsley, one of her Slytherin classmates, a genius, and her floating charms were complete duds.  She chalked it up to nerves, but whatever it was, it was killing her.  Often she found herself returning to her father's diary.  It was comforting to find someone else who shared her troubles, even if it _was _nearly 20 years ago.  Since the boy who lived ***no pun intended…really ****J*** inside these pages was her age, she had stopped calling him "Dad".  To her he really _was _simply "Harry".  He was a friend, one who understood her better even than she understood herself.  He was the only one who understood.  Giving a great sigh and promising to return after dinner, Abby left the room and headed for class.  

            They had been working on liquid transfiguration for a few weeks now, mostly with just a lot of notes.  Today Professor Granger had something else in mind.  When Abby walked in, there was a glass of water atop her desk – as well as on everyone else's.  She looked up nervously at her teacher.

            "Good afternoon, class.  Now, I've had a talk with Professor Flitwick, and it seems you've all been learning a few Floating charms.  I've decided that it would be excellent preparation for mid-year exams to practice those charms with what we've been learning in here.  After all, Transfiguration and Charms go hand-in-hand; they're very closely related.  They stem from the same origin, in fact.  Anyway, I want you first to change the water in the glasses in front of you into something solid.  Let's say a porcupine quill.  Charm it, lift it out of the glass for a few moments, then drop it back in.  Ten points to anyone who can transfigure it back into water."

            Abby glared at her glass as though its contents were poison.  Excellent preparation?  More like a dirty trick.  She took a deep, steadying breath, pointed her wand firmly at the glass, and clearly spoke the words "Arlio Finnicus".  ***I got tired of using Latin; I made that one up myself.  Wonder if it means anything…***  The tip of her wand glowed to a brilliant green shade, but that was the only reaction she got.  She repeated the spell five, six, seven times, but the most she got was a misty fog on the surface of the water.  Meanwhile, Paul – and nearly everyone in the class – had already turned the water into quills.  Several were even zooming around the room.  

            Her eyes brimming with tears of frustration, she got to her feet and aimed the wand right into the water.  This was her best subject!  Why couldn't she do this?  She had spent the summer absorbed in this book; she knew almost every spell by heart.  If she couldn't do transfiguration, she couldn't do anything.  This thought hovering hauntingly in her mind, she shouted, "ARLIO FINNICUS!"  A single tear trickled slowly down her cheek despite her best efforts to hold it back.  But then, with a very loud pop! the water became a porcupine quill.

            She stared at her own wand in disbelief.  As a matter of fact, so was Professor Granger.  ***I keep wanting to put 'McGonagall'***  The water was supposed to group together into the shape of a quill.  It wasn't supposed to just suddenly become, and definitely not accompanied by a "pop" sound.  Nonetheless, she had done it, and that gave her a sense of relief.  With a slightly trembling hand she murmured "Nedeelius Leviosa" and flicked her wand.  A few more flicks and the quill was out of the glass.  She struggled to make it hover the glass…but it kept going…now it was over her head…she couldn't control it…

            pop!  The spell was broken.  The quill transfigured itself back into water, which poured down on her head and completely drenched her.  No one sitting near her got so much as a drop on them; she got it all.  She cried out in frustration.  "I can't _do _this!" she exclaimed, shoving the glass away from her.  "I'm a horrible witch.  I can't even do a simple Levitating charm!  No, Paul, let's face it – the daughter of the great Harry Potter is nothing more than a plain old ordinary squib.  I HATE MAGIC!"  Luckily the tears now streaming down her face were easily written off as the water she'd tried to transfigure.  *** ~wants to smack Abby for being such a crybaby~ LOL***  The entire class gawked at her.  Professor Granger rushed over, towel in hand.  She had anticipated a spill, but not one like this.  Abby read the slight disappointment in her teacher's eyes.  Harry's words came back to her: "I hate this.  I really do.  I'm not perfect, so why does everyone think I am?"  

            "Abby, class is almost over," said Professor Granger kindly.  "Why don't you go see Professor Dumbledore?  He asked me to send you to his office after class, anyway."  Abby nodded, wrapping her long hair inside the towel like a turban of sorts.  As soon as she had set the soggy mess on her head, Lily, who sat behind her, gasped.

            "Abby – your scar!" she exclaimed.  Abby used the end of the towel to dry her dripping wet cheeks.  She rolled her eyes at the comment, getting up to leave.

            "Lily, please.  It's been hurting me for weeks.  You know that.  It must be incredibly vivid right now, and if you please I'd really rather not hear any more comparisons of it to my father's," she said, thoroughly agitated.  But her friend's penetrating stare would not leave her forehead.  Come to think of it, now Paul and Professor Granger were also staring hard at the scar.  Her cheeks flushed to a royal red shade.  She already resented the fact that everyone knew her name and based their opinions of her on that alone.  She hated the stares she got when she walked through the corridors.  This was absolutely unbearable.  

            "No, it's – just that it's – _it's brilliantly green_," said Paul in a hushed whisper.  Abby's eyes widened.  Brilliant green?  It had never done that before.  Could it mean…she shuddered at the very thought.  She fit her turban-like towel snugly over her forehead, struggling to disguise the mark.  _It's my own Dark Mark, really, _she thought, scooping her books into her arms.  That was it.  Her and Harry's scars were nothing more than their own private Dark Marks, distinguishing them from the world for better or worse.

            Professor Granger lifted an eyebrow.  "Hurting you for weeks?  Perhaps you'd better go to the hospital wing after you visit with the Headmaster.  Go on now, he's expecting you."  Abby swallowed hard and forced herself to nod.  It really hadn't been _hurting _as much as it was aching dully, but maybe a visit to the peaceful, quiet hospital wing would do good for her.  Besides, it would stop everyone gaping at her, at least for an evening.  Paul and Lily jumped to walk with her, but she insisted on going on her own.  She needed time to think.

            What did Dumbledore want to see her for?  Maybe he found out that she hadn't done a spell right for weeks.  Maybe he wanted to tell her, sorry, we've made a mistake, you're not really magical.  ***yes, those _are _the same things Harry thought in book 1 when he was about to be Sorted.  Bravo for noticing!***  _Maybe, _she thought glumly, _he's told my parents and they've come to take me home.  _She winced at the thought of her father staring down at her in disappointment.  What happened to the daddy she used to play out on the swings with?  What happened to "just Harry"?  Certainly they were nowhere near the man who shook his head so sadly at her in her thoughts.

            Her head held high with forced determination to be strong, she stepped inside Headmaster Dumbledore's room.     


	17. The girl who lived

            ***here ya go, Mrs. Weasley – a gift from me to you, all wrapped up in ribbon.  ****J  Thank you guys so much for the wonderful reviews.  And no, AngelCD, it doesn't take me a year to write each chapter, though it does take quite a while.  My French teacher's a little jealous that I choose writing this over her class, lol.  Luv ya too, Andria!!!  Elham…yess!!  Harry _is _a horrible wizard, isn't he?  Magicalmischiefmaker – yes, I try to be unique.  It's a gift, hahaha.  Becky, you frighten me!  Fictious – your review is great, very helpful.  Thank you all!!***    

Professor Dumbledore's office was easily the most unusual in the school, but Abby was quite used to it.  After all, he was the head of the Order of the Phoenix, who were often stranger people than he.  She walked hesitantly into the room, trying not to step on any of the notepad-sized Quick-Digging Holes that had been strewn about the room for some odd reason.  Dumbledore was a wizard genius, but he was also a bit absent-minded and eccentric.  He had Instant Freeze Ice Cubes (Just Add Water!) in a box on his desk, and Self-Sorting Papers scattered throughout the room, all busy shuffling themselves into some sort of order.  In a golden cage near his desk sat Fawkes.  She smiled as she approached.  She was already very familiar with the bird.  He had been in Dumbledore's hands since her parents were in school ***is Fawkes a male or female?  lol,**** I'm pretty sure it's a "he"*** , probably long before then.  Sometimes, when he was very young and indistinguishable as a phoenix (which were very rare), he used him like an owl to send mail.  Now, though, he was unmistakable for what he was.  His wings, which were enormous when they were stretched out, had beautiful, golden red plumage, and his long, slender tail was a fiery orange color.  He reached his long beak through the bars of the cage and nipped affectionately at her finger, not unlike Cedric (her owl) when he was in a good mood.

            "Ah, Abigail, there you are," came a strangely familiar but disembodied ***hehe, I love that word*** voice.  It was undeniably Dumbledore.  "I was just searching for something…just a moment…"  One of the rolls of parchment on the desk quivered and began to rock from side to side.  Abby jumped, wondering if she had somehow done that on her own.  She was so startled she dropped her wand, which she had been unconsciously been clutching since she left Transfiguration.  It was very likely she _was _doing it; all sorts of things like that had been happening lately.  She watched anxiously as the parchment rolled itself right off the desk.  There was a soft _poof_, like the sound of breaking glass against a pillow, and Dumbledore stood before her.  He had a cloud of dust surrounding him, which he brushed lightly from his robe.

            "My apologies," he said, reaching down for her wand and handing it to her.  "I was just asking myself, 'If I were a piece of parchment, where would I be?'  Then, suddenly, poof!  Not quite what I expected, of course."  Abby couldn't resist smiling.  The light-hearted joke certainly helped to ease tensions.  A miniscule portion of her nerves ebbed away.

            "Headmaster," she began uncertainly, shifting her weight from foot to foot.  "Um…well…Professor Granger told me to come see you."  She chanced a glance up at him to try to read his eyes.  She had learned early on that it was quite easy to guess most people's thoughts through their eyes.  Eyes could often be just as expressive as smiles or frowns or even words.  Dumbledore's could even be deceptive.  He could say something with severe disappointment or sadness, but if his eyes were laughing you knew he was only teasing.  However, his eyes were nowhere near hers for her to read.  Instead, they had fixated themselves on her forehead.  Her cheeks burning in embarrassment, she struggled to adjust the towel again.  He chuckled softly.

            "Water transfiguration, eh?" he asked, pulling his own wand from his robes.  "Not a very easy thing to learn, I'm afraid.  I seem to recall a certain young woman with bushy brown hair and brown eyes who couldn't seem to get the spell right.  Top of her class, but had a lot of trouble with that one spell.  She always used to come in here absolutely soaking wet.  But in time I believe she _did _master it.  In fact, I think she even teaches here now."  Abby watched in awe as he pointed the wand at the fireplace and muttered a few words.  Instantly a huge flame rose up from the logs.

            "Professor Granger?" she asked in surprise.  "She couldn't do it, either?"  Dumbledore didn't answer, but Abby took this as a yes and smiled.  So _that _was why she'd had so much sympathy for her in class.  It was good to know she wasn't alone in her mistakes.  Her fear now diminishing greatly, she had the courage to unwrap the towel from her hair.  Dumbledore was silently directing her toward one of the thickly cushioned armchairs by the fire, so she guessed this meant she could dry her hair there.  Her bright green scar was now entirely forgotten.

            She shook her hair a bit to fix the crumpled mess the towel had made, and plopped down in one of the seats.  She lifted the mass of soggy black and dropped it over the back of the seat, trying to fan it out so it would dry faster.  Dumbledore sat in the seat opposite her.  Her smile almost came crashing down.  His eyes lost something of their sparkle the moment he sat down, and there seemed to be a bit of sadness in them instead.  All her old insecurities rose up like a great flood to her heart.  For a moment or two she was positively terrified of what he was going to say.  He cleared his throat.

            "Unfortunately, Abby, I also have something else to tell you," he said gravely.  She closed her eyes and braced herself.  _Here it comes, _she thought.  _He's going to tell me I'm not magical enough for school and he's going to kick me out.  Oh no – what's Dad going to think?  Oh Harry, I wish you were here!  _"I have been in touch with your parents since you've started school, not to keep an eye on you but to check in with the Order of the Phoenix.  It seems your parents have been threatened by Dark wizards enough for them to believe they need a Secret-Keeper.  They do not want to lose you, though, so your father sees it fit to put you under the spell as well.  He and your mother will be here to take you home after breakfast tomorrow morning.  Please make sure you are packed and ready to go by then."

            Abby felt fear strike her heart as it had never before.  Her eyes flew open.  Take her home?  Tomorrow morning?  Threatened by Dark wizards?  A _Secret-Keeper_?!  This was all too much.  A thousand questions rose to her mind, but they all caught in her throat.  Her mouth opened and closed but not a sound came out.  Dumbledore wasn't finished, either.

            "Professor Snape will be accompanying you.  He has agreed to be your family's Secret-Keeper."  

            It was as though someone had just forced a giant rock down her throat and it had crashed through her heart and stomach.  ***isn't that the nastiest feeling?***  Her eyes widened, the sudden realization of this hitting her all at once.  She jumped right out of the chair.

            "_Snape_?!" she exclaimed disapprovingly.  "But Professor, a Secret-Keeper has to be someone you _trust_!  You have to rely on them for everything!  They're your only contact with the outside world!  Snape, of all people!  Sir, I – I don't want to go.  I _won't _go.  I won't be able to talk to you, or Lily, or Paul, or – or Elijah!  That's not fair!  Aren't I safer here than under the care of a Secret-Keeper?  I sit in on Order meetings, you know.  I'm not stupid.  Voldemort isn't after my mum or me; he's after my dad.  Wouldn't it make more sense to make _her _his Secret-Keeper and leave me here?  I can learn things here that will help me defend myself when I get older.  Professor Phillips is, after all, a better Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher than my parents could ever be."

            The more Abby spoke, the angrier she realized she was and the angrier her words came.  She didn't mean to raise her voice.  Her frustrations were coming out too quickly for her to control.  "I hate when he does this to me!" she cried.  "He treats me like I'm four years old!  He watches every move I make, and sometimes anything I do isn't good enough for him.  It's like Snape – and _he _says they don't get along!  What a joke.  It's more like he's been taking pages right out of Snape's book.  God, how am I going to learn anything if he won't give me the chance to make my own mistakes?  He won't even give me a minute to breathe!"  

            When she finished, she remembered she wasn't alone in the room.  Dumbledore was staring patiently at her, making absolutely sure she was finished before he spoke.  She had never felt so foolish before.  Suddenly she felt about four inches tall.  She slunk quietly back into the armchair, her shoulders drooped and her eyes wide and afraid.  She had just raised her voice to a teacher, the Headmaster no less.  Now she was going to be expelled for sure.

            "Abigail, please listen to me," said Dumbledore softly.  It was this tone that made her so afraid.  "Your father fears for you more than you know.  He loves you more than anything else in the world.  When you were born, he was so proud he must have called half the city of London.  He even phoned his aunt, uncle, and cousin, who couldn't have cared less.  But he wanted family, blood family, to know, even if they don't _want _to know.  When you were 10 months old, he almost lost you.  I had never seen him cry before, but that day he came very close to it.  He was pale and trembling, as though he'd spent a full week in Azkaban.  He's made quite a few mistakes in his life, many of which should have cost him his life.  The one thing that terrifies him most is watching you make those same mistakes.  He was lucky.  You may not be."

            Abby froze.  She could still feel her heart thrumming loudly in her ears, but not for the same reason.  Fawkes' soft singing in the background was the only sound in the room.  "A-almost lost me?  How?"

            "Your parents never told you the story?  Not Mrs. Finnigan or Mr. Weasley?  No one?"  Too shocked to speak, she shook her head slowly.  What was he talking about?  He sucked in a deep breath.

            "I should think you would have known.  Well, no matter.  You know Voldemort has been after your father for years.  When your parents were married, he began to chase after your mother as well.  The two of them were simply too powerful in our world.  He was jealous, really.  He was afraid you would get to be just as powerful.  Somehow, after years of searching, he found you and your parents.  I'm not really that sure how, but he did.  And he found his way into your house.  Your father was off at the Ministry of Magic, and your mother was asleep.  You were the first one he saw.  Abby, do you know why your dad is famous in our world?"

            She nodded in complete disbelief.  The question hardly needed answering, but she decided to answer anyway.  "Because…he was the boy who lived," she replied quietly.

            "Right.  When Harry was a year old, Voldemort tried to use the Killing Curse on him.  His mother had taken her life and used it to save his, so for 13 years he was untouchable to a Dark wizard.  He could not be killed.  Voldemort was nearly destroyed in the attack, and your dad was left with that scar that has become so famous.  Mark of the Phoenix we call it, because it symbolizes a second chance to live.  You, my dear, survived the same exact curse.  However, the cause and effect of your survival is what baffles us.  You were given a scar like you dad's, but Voldemort was not destroyed.  Only terribly weakened.  What's more, you should have died.  Thank heavens you didn't, but no one knows _why _you didn't.  Your father was saved by love.  You were quite unprotected.  That's not to say that your parents didn't love you.  They did then and they do now.  They just weren't there.  That's why they're so afraid to leave you.  They're afraid it might happen again.  Abby, just as your father was the boy who lived, so you are the girl who lived."    

            


	18. Abby's scar

            At dinner that night, Abby was the quietest she had ever been.  Paul had to call her name four or five times before she answered, and even then all he got was a despondent "huh?".  Lily tried asking what was wrong.  Abby just smiled and shook her head.  It was sort of a pointless question.  There wasn't necessarily anything wrong, just a load of things for her to think about.  Dumbledore's half hour with her took everything she once believed and tossed it out the window.  She didn't have the faintest idea how she felt about any of it.  As she picked uninterestedly at her chicken and baked potato, she started to toy with her locket.  What would Harry do if he were faced with the same problem?  *He _was _faced with the same problem* said a small voice in her head.  *Remember the Chamber of Secrets?  He was just hours from having to leave Hogwarts forever.  He ended up finding the monster that was such a deadly threat and destroying it*  _Yeah, _thought Abby, _but he knew exactly what he was fighting against.  I haven't got a clue._

Pretty soon her silence captured the attention of most of the table.  They looked at her strangely, so much so that she started to feel herself blushing again.  Some were even pointing and whispering.  Still, she wouldn't let it interrupt her thoughts.  She was too deep within herself to let it bother her.

            However, she couldn't ignore physical contact.  Just when she thought she couldn't take any more of the stares, something smacked into the back of her head.  She immediately picked her head up and whipped around in her seat for the offender.  No one gave her any sign it was them, but she noticed a crumpled ball of parchment at her feet.  Curious, she picked it up and flattened it out as best she could so she could read it.  It was a short message, written in a scrawl she immediately recognized.

            "Abby:

                        What's wrong?  I'm here for you to talk to if you need me.

- Elijah"

Suddenly she knew what she wanted to do.  She had taken her bag with her

dinner, having essentially gone from class to the Great Hall with one great stop in between.  She rummaged around inside it, finally pulling out her Self-Inking Quill.  Hurriedly, as though she'd been meaning to do this all along, she scribbled her reply.

            "Meet me in the Gryffindor common room about ten minutes after I leave.  The password is 'kettle cap'.  Don't worry; no one will say anything.  I won't let them."

            She didn't bother signing it, since it was really rather clear who it was from.  She simply balled it back up (now it was very, very tattered and torn), turned around, and threw it at Elijah.  It flew over his shoulder and on the table in front of him – precisely where she had aimed it.  _Funny, _she thought.  _My magic is falling apart, but otherwise I'm perfect.  I'm a perfect Muggle.  Figures.  _She turned back to her friends.

            "Lily, um, I'm going to head upstairs.  I'll finish eating up there.  I'm just…not feeling well, so I'd like to lie down for a bit," she lied.  Lily peered at her warily.  Was that all?  Was that why her scar had turned green?  Because she wasn't feeling well?  She hadn't known Abby all that long; for all she knew it was an obvious solution.  She and Paul exchanged looks.  He lifted his eyebrows as if to ask, "What do you think?"  Lily didn't – couldn't – give him an answer.  Paul looked over at Abby.

            "All right," he replied slowly.  "Do you want us to go with you?"  Although he hadn't been spoken to, he still felt a certain brother-sister protectiveness toward her.  She seemed thrown off by the question, which made him very skeptical.  Then again, she also seemed very distracted.  Most likely she just wanted to get away to be alone and think.  That would be very Abby-esque.

            "N-no, that's okay," she said quickly.  She stood up and turned toward the door, dozens of eyes following her as she headed for the great double doors.  Her head was so filled with all the new information Dumbledore had given her that she felt her head would explode.  She had to get it out somehow, and now that she thought about it Elijah would provide an excellent release.  She had more faith in him than almost anyone else, more even than she knew.  As she left the Great Hall, she felt the all-too-familiar twinge of pain from her scar.  It was more like a needle prick, sharp but quick, but it was enough to make her pull her elastic out of her hair, thus disguising her forehead.  If the scar had once again turning green, she didn't need everyone to gawk.

            Abby barely made it around the corner before she was stopped by Filch, the caretaker.  Because of all the rule-breaking Harry had done in school, Filch was almost as suspicious of her as Snape was.  He glared at her warily, doubtful of her innocence before she even knew the accusation.

            "Why aren't you down eating with everyone else?" he demanded, circling her slowly like a vulture.  She swallowed hard, frozen to her spot.  With all the tumbling in her mind, she certainly wasn't prepared for this.  _Come on, say something or he'll think you really _did _do something wrong!_

"Argus, students are permitted to take their leave of the Great Hall any time they choose," came a warm, friendly voice from behind her.  Abby sighed with relief.  She didn't have to turn around to know who her rescuer was.  "You know that.  It so happens that Miss Potter has a lot on her mind and would prefer to eat in the quiet sanctuary of her dormitory."  For once Abby was rather thankful for Dumbledore's habit of turning up at unexpected moments.  She smiled gratefully at him, to which he replied by smiling and nodding his head.  It was amazing how his voice could be so cold toward Filch and so warm toward her at the same time. He turned his suspicious stare from Abby to Dumbledore, reluctantly stepping aside.

            "Sorry, Headmaster, sir," he apologized with a slight sneer.  "Can't be too careful with the Potters, that's what my old man used to say.  They've got a complete disregard for rules, they have.  Think they're too good for them, I'd say."  Dumbledore narrowed his eyes, and his voice became as cold as ice.  Abby felt a sudden inclination to shiver when he spoke.  

            "That will be all, Argus.  You are to care for the castle, not the students.  That's my job," he said, turning to leave.  Just before he left, though, he called over his shoulder and added, "By the way, Mr. Elijah Young has my permission to pass as well." 

            Abby felt her insides go cold.  How did he know she'd asked Elijah to follow?  She was almost certain Dumbledore had an uncanny ability to read minds.  ***yes, I did get that right from the books, from Harry's thoughts – good for you for noticing!*** She didn't have much time to dwell on it; Filch was urging her on.  Not wishing to run into any other students who had left the Hall, she raced up to the Gryffindor tower as fast as her legs would carry her.  She lit a fire in the common room fireplace, sat herself on the excessively cushioned couch, and waited patiently.

            She didn't have to wait long.  Hardly five minutes had passed when she heard bickering just outside the portrait hole.

            "I've got permission to be here!"

            "But you can't be a Gryffindor.  I've never seen you here before."

            "I told you, I'm _not _a Gryffindor; I'm a friend of one.  Would I know the password any other way?"

            "Maybe you stole it."

            "I didn't steal it!  Look, my friend Abby is in there waiting for me.  Something tells me she really needs someone right now.  And see, I'll rip up the password right now and never use it again.  Promise.  Now please, just let me in!"

            Abby rolled her eyes and leapt off the couch.  "It's all right, he's with me," she shouted through the portrait hole.  The Fat Lady was practically manic-obsessive about Gryffindors and only Gryffindors entering her tower.  She wasn't always that way, as Harry's diary had told her – anyone who knew the password was allowed in, and sometimes even those didn't.  But starting when he was around 13 or 14, murderers had found their way into the tower so often that the Fat Lady's paranoia was almost understandable.

            The portrait paused a moment, then swung open.  A very frazzled-looking Elijah appeared, and Abby smiled with relief.  Somehow it was a comfort just to have him there.

            "Mental, that one," he said with exasperation.  ***LOL, I'm such a thief – in the movie, that was Ron's first impression of Hermione*** Abby laughed openly for the first time since her visit to Dumbledore, and led him over to the couch.

            "It's just…oh Elijah, I'm so glad you're here to talk to," she blurted out, launching into a great explanation of everything that had just happened over the past hour.  He sat quietly and listened, every now and then nodding his head in agreement.  He noticed that she had a strange habit of toying with her necklace as she spoke.  He also noticed that as she played with it, the scar on her forehead glowed slightly.  Ever since he'd first stepped into the room, it had been growing more deeply green.  Realization came to him.  He swallowed hard and hoped she wouldn't notice the deep scarlet color in his cheeks.  

            


	19. Power of the necklace

** Sorry for the confusion…about halfway through the story I changed Devon's name to Elijah, but I guess I missed some in re-typing so…if you see the name "Devon" anywhere, please let me know - it's just a typo I have to fix         

** and on with the story!

"…and it's not fair; I don't want to go home."  Abby paused to catch her breath.  Elijah hadn't said a thing through all of this.  Was he even listening?  He seemed a little distracted.  Of course, she had been talking for quite a while, but that was because he hadn't _tried _to say anything.  If he had, she would have stopped to listen.  She titled her head slightly, giving him a quizzical look.

            "Elijah?  Are you listening?" she asked, not demanding, just wondering.  He shook his head abruptly, like he had drifted off inside his thoughts and realized quite suddenly that he shouldn't have.  This was evidence to her that he hadn't been listening.  He threw on a smile and nodded quickly, but it was too late.  He was caught.  Yet she found it near impossible to be angry with him.  Maybe it was the way the firelight caught his eyes, giving him the appearance of a lost, lonely little boy.  Maybe it was the result of all the times she'd stumbled and he'd been there to catch her.  Maybe it was her previously guilty conscience, far too sophisticated for her age.  Whatever it was, rather than throw an angry fit about how he wasn't paying attention, she kept hr head cocked and allowed her eyebrows to furrow.

            "Is something wrong?  That's perfectly all right, if there's something else on your mind," she told him honestly.  He laughed, a short sort of laugh that meant she was saying more than she realized.  Something else was on his mind, all right.  She had just barely brushed the surface.  He spread his knees slightly, dropping his elbows against his thighs and pressing his palms together thoughtfully.  He stared at the carpeted floor, as though it withheld the answers he needed.  His midnight-black hair tumbled carelessly over his eyes.  She had a sudden irresistible urge to smooth it away for him.  The way she felt about him, the feelings he unknowingly evoked in her when he was around…could it be that she fancied him, more than as a friend?  But no, that was impossible.  She was too young for that.  And yet these were not the emotions of an 11-year-old girl.  She was too young for her own feelings.  Of course.  It only fit in the irony of her life.  

            "Yes, of course there's something wrong," he replied vaguely.  "But that's a tale for another day.  I don't think you're quite ready yet, especially considering all you've been through tonight.  In any case, Dumbledore is a great wizard.  If he thinks it's best for you to leave school, then it's best for you to leave school.  He's been doing this for many years, Abby.  I think he knows what he's doing."

            Whatever she had been expected him to say, it certainly wasn't that.  She lifted an eyebrow at him.  A surge of bitter resentment swelled in her heart, but she struggled to suppress it as best as she could.  "I'm not ready for it," she reiterated coldly.  Nevertheless, he could sense the biting undertone in her voice, much as she tried to squelch it.  "Elijah, do you know how many times I've heard that before?  It's funny.  People expect me to be as great as Merlin himself, but they think I'm too young for my own family history.  I just found out Voldemort is not only after my dad; he's after me, too.  I survived the Killing Curse.  Someone other than Voldemort is out to murder my parents.  And they're sending me home so the one teacher I loathe above everything ***Conlan!  LOL Damion, Andria, and Elham!*** can be our Secret-Keeper.  Now do you really think you can tell me _anything _that'll surprise me?"

            Elijah read her eyes for a moment, and then chuckled in a lighthearted tone not unlike that of Professor Dumbledore's.  Suddenly, somehow, Abby knew she wasn't sitting with an ordinary 11-year-old boy.  He was far too wise for his years.  It was clear he knew a lot more than he was telling her.  "Oh Abby, you're such a Potter.  Your eyes alone reveal you.  Anyway.  All right, I'll tell you, but first you've got to tell me…what do you keep in your locket?"  

            "Your eyes alone reveal you."  This simple statement baffled her.  Why on earth was he talking so eloquently?  How was it that someone so young could speak as profoundly as someone ten times his age?  She held her hand protectively over the necklace.  "My-my locket?" she stammered.  "Why?"  It wasn't like there was anything particularly incriminating inside; it was just a little embarrassing.  Then again, she felt safe with Elijah.  How likely was it that he could actually tease her?  Against her better judgment, swooned by a smile, she reached behind her neck and unhooked the beautiful chain he'd given her.

            _A ha, _he thought as she placed the locket in his hand.  Her scar was losing its greenish hue and gradually going to back to normal.  _So it's _not _me.  _"I just want to see something," he explained quietly.  Not much of an explanation, but his mind was somewhere else.  He slipped his thumbnail into the metal seam and very gently popped the locket open.  Two faces, a boy and a girl, stared back at him. They were scarcely older than he was.  The girl had curly ringlets of inky black, same color as Abby, but with amber-colored eyes.  The boy had Abby's bright emerald eyes, and though it was the same color, his hair was much more rugged and disheveled.  He eyed it for a few moments, curiously trying to place the hauntingly familiar faces.  He knew he had seen them someplace, but where?

            "Who exactly _are _these people?" he asked, not intending to sound as harsh as he did.  She could feel her cheeks warming with a familiar sensation of embarrassment as she stared distantly at the floor.  With her ankles crossed and her gaze boring into the red-fringed carpeting, she looked much young than she really was, by a couple years at least.

            "They're, er…those are my parents, when they were my age."  He smiled softly and nodded.  Of course.  Harry and November Potter.  How could he have forgotten?  He glanced down again at the faded photographs.  Not wizard photos, these.  They were still-life Muggle pictures.  He couldn't even begin to guess why a wizarding family took Muggle snapshots, but that was quite irrelevant for the moment.  And yes, now that he thought of it…there was the unruly black hair, green eyes hidden by a pair of round, wire-rimmed glasses, and just above his right eye – yes, there it was.  The Phoenix mark.  How could he have missed it?

            "Makes sense.  They're easier to relate to this way," he said distantly, virtually reading her mind.  This shocked her immensely, but it hardly even fazed him.  That wasn't his main focus of thought.  It didn't matter to him _why _they were in there so much as it did _that _they were in there.  He slid the locket delicately off the chain.  "Abby," he continued, "do me a favor.  Get your wand."

            She eyed him curiously for a moment or two, but finally shrugged without argument.  He hadn't teased or hurt her yet.  What reason did she have not to trust him now?  When she'd found Harry's diary, she'd read that he carried his wand on him at all times.  And why not?  Hogwarts was full of surprises, and more often than not they were nasty surprises.  Now she did the same.  She pulled her wand from the folds of her robes and handed it to him.  He made no move to take it.  In fact, he didn't look up at all.  

            "Do a spell," he said abruptly, still without explanation.  "Say, a Summoning Charm.  Do you know how to do a Summoning Charm?  Oh no, that's fifth year…all right, how about a Force Charm?  Push that glass of water off the table."

            Her mouth formed words of protest, but no sound left her.  How on earth did he know about Summoning Charms?  What did he do, spend his life in the library, reading about spells they hadn't learned yet?  His manner of speech would suggest he did.  But no matter.  Harry's friend Hermione (she'd read) had done the same thing when she was younger.  Abby gave another shrug and pointed her wand squarely at the glass that sat atop the coffee table beside Elijah.

            "All right," she said anxiously, "but I'm warning you, my spells haven't come out too well lately.  You might want to protect yourself.  With my luck, it'll probably shatter in a dozen pieces."  He said nothing.  _Okay, can't say I didn't warn you, _she thought.  She took a deep, steadying breath, hoping it would calm the slight tremor in her hand, and with a here-goes-nothing attitude said, "_Thuro Pifre_!"  The result startled her.  The tip of her wand glowed slightly red, and the glass began to slide across the table as though pushed by an invisible hand.  There was a resounding crash – Abby had successfully pushed the glass off the table.  She gave a start.  She was so surprised, she gave no mind to the water that seeped into the rug.

            Elijah nodded as though he'd been expecting this.  "Okay…now here, put this on again," he said, giving her back her necklace.  She still had no idea what he was trying to prove, but did as she was told.  No, that wasn't true.  She knew exactly what he meant to do – prove that the necklace was hindering her magic.  But how could that be?  Slowly, uncertain of how much trust she really wanted to put into him, she clipped the piece of jewelry around her neck and picked up her wand again.

            This time she didn't need him to give her instructions.  Any spell would clearly do, so she decided to do something constructive and dry up the water she'd spilled.  She pointed her wand at the puddle, wiggled it slightly from side to side, and spoke the Drying Charm Professor Dumbledore had given her.  That felt like ages ago now.

            Unfortunately, it didn't work quite the way she'd wanted it to.  Instead of using a little heat to dry, the carpet burst into flames.  She gave a start, but Elijah simply pulled out his wand from his robes and waved it lazily over the small blaze.  It appeared to disappear, receding in itself and vanishing with a soft _pop.  _She sat gaping at him for a few beats.  So he _did _read up on these things!

            Before could open her mouth to explain her rotten luck with spells of late, he sighed.  "I thought so.  Abby, I have something to confess to you.  I'm not who you think I am.  My name isn't Elijah; it's Raphael.  Raphael Demore.  And I'm not 11 years old.  This is an Age Charm.  I'm 27 years old, and I…I used to be a Death Eater."    

            


	20. Raphael's song

** Are you ready for this?   

Abby continued to gawk at him.  It almost felt as though her heart had stopped beating.  What was he saying?  He was really 16 years older than her, but trapped in that body by an Age Charm?  No, that wasn't possible…was it?  No, it couldn't be.  She'd had far too many surprises already.  The likelihood that he would present her with another was too incredulous.  But then, she _had _noticed that he acted incredibly mature for his age.  He hung his head gravely and closed his eyes, giving a great sigh.  _Oh my god_, thought Abby in disbelief; _he's not lying to me._

"I was born a Death Eater," he began to explain.  "On my father's side.  My mother died in my childbirth, and my father was left to raise me.  Of course, he was one of Voldemort's right-hand men, so I grew as a sort of a duke to the Dark Lord.  I was a nobleman of the Death Eaters before I even knew what a nobleman _was_.  My father was a great chemist.  Had he steered clear of the Dark Arts, his name might have been famous in our world.  But it didn't happen that way.  When Voldemort heard tell of the Sorcerer's Stone, he knew immediately that he wanted it.  Naturally my father was the one chosen for the task of replicating.  It was raised on his discoveries, but I wasn't particularly good at making my own.  The gift of alchemy simply hadn't passed into my genes.  

            "No, Voldemort had another job for me.  As I reached my teenage years, he noticed that I was attracting a rather large number of women.  They became quite easy to seduce.  One gentle word and a flash of a smile and I could make them do anything I wanted them to do.  Voldemort took it into his head that he would use this power as his own.  I talked many a witch out of sentencing Dark wizards to Azkaban.  I became rather popular with the Dark Lord's inner circle.  And I learned the art of time travel.

            "You see, the one in charge of that department of the Ministry was a pretty young witch, 19 years old, fresh out of Hogwarts.  She fell in love with me immediately.  It wasn't terribly difficult to convince her to allow me to use a Time Turner.  Once, twice…a hundred times I turned it.  I traveled through years, decades, both past and future.  But you were the one who made me stop.  I went some 20-plus years into the future, where I discovered your 16-year-old self.  My god, you were beautiful.  Long, silky black hair, sparkling green eyes…and a locket.  This locket.  You explained that it had been a gift from a young man by the name of Raphael.  You were the Potter girl, and Voldemort had been out to murder both you and your father when you were hardly a year old.  But as you slept, Raphael came and slipped this locket around your neck.  When Voldemort came to curse you to your grave, he couldn't do it.  The necklace protected you.  It wasn't the key to immortal life; simply a deflector of the Killing Curse.  Unfortunately, you told me, it also caused some serious problems with any spells you tried to do.  Because of the chemical make-up of the necklace, and the defensive charms surrounding it, it also deflected little spells you tried to do.  But it was the necklace that did it, not the locket.

            "Well, I was a Death Eater.  I was all set to kill you right then and there, if that was what my master required of me.  Over the next few weeks I smooth-talked you into giving me the locket, knowing that you were completely vulnerable without it.  Yet over that period time, something happened that I hadn't anticipated – I fell in love with you.  That was why it was so easy to befriend you earlier this year.  You already have deep-rooted feelings for me because we are to be in love in the future.  And because I loved you, I couldn't bring myself to kill you.  I hardly had the courage to speak harshly to you.  I knew what I had to do.  I had to get back to my own time so I could save your infancy from Voldemort.

            "And I did just that.  I took your locket and went back to when I was truly 16 years old.  Before the Dark Lord could get you, I snuck into your home and put the locket around your neck in secret.  I stayed in my time to keep an eye on you.  Your parents knew of the protective power of the necklace, but they couldn't guess that it was I who gave it to you.  When you grew older, I noticed that you were showing no signs of the magic that ran in your blood.  I knew that was because of your necklace.  I stole that from you, replacing it with the shoestring you've always known.

            "As for Voldemort, well, that was simple enough.  My father was killed by an Auror during a failed invasion of the Ministry.  I made it seem as though I had been killed alongside him.  I performed an Age Charm on myself and enrolled at Hogwarts so that I could keep an eye on you.  And that, ma chérie, is the long and short of it.  I know the Dark Lord is after you once again.  That's why I gave you back your necklace.  That's why your scar glows green – the necklace.  And the Sorting Hat put me in Slytherin because it knew I used to be a Dark wizard.  But I'm not anymore.  Abigail, you must believe me.  I'm only trying to protect you.  When that train comes to take you home tomorrow morning, you must go.  You're not safe around me anymore.  I think Voldemort's finally caught on to me."

            Abby had listened to all of this in quiet contemplation.  Confusion was making her head spin.  How had he known all these things?  If he was lying, how then did he know her magic had only shown itself at a late age?  How did he know of the aching crush she had on him?  His story had been too intricate, too believable, to be a lie.  But she had heard enough stories to last a lifetime.  All these surprises were making her dizzy.

            At last she got to her feet.  "Get out," she said so softly it froze her voice.  "You're lying to me.  I can't deal with all this right now.  I want you out, and I want you out now."  She had no desire to cry, but if he didn't leave now, she was sure she'd go out of her mind.  He looked at her for a moment, then nodded.

            "Right," he said, getting slowly to his feet.  "I expected as much.  I'm sorry; I just thought you ought to know the truth –"

            "I told you to get out," she replied sharply.  If she'd had the patience to look at him, even for a moment, she would have seen the confusion of emotions in his eyes.  There was so much more he wanted to say, but he didn't want to terrify her any more than she already was.  She was right – she _had _had enough to deal with today.  But if she was going to fight against this, she needed to know what she was up against at least.  She just wasn't ready for the rest.  Not yet.  He left her with one last lingering look and trotted back through the portrait hole.  Abby could hear a very distraught Fat Lady huffing at his return.  

            She sighed, nestling deeply into the chair.  The calm of the silent, empty common room came as an enormous comfort.  So many stories she'd heard today…lord, where did they start?  She closed her eyes and tried to remember.  Ah, yes.  She was the girl who lived.  Why hadn't her parents told her that?  Things would have been easier to deal with had she had more time to at least accept that one.  Then she was told _why _she was the girl who lived.  Oh, and the Dark wizard threatening her family.  Yes, that had come as quite a shock as well.  She was headed home tomorrow to live out the rest of Voldemort's life with no company other than that of her parents and Snape.  And a baby sibling.  She would have a new little brother or sister before a year had passed.  Well, at least there was _something _going for her.  So much to cope with…

            Abby was beginning to get a headache.

            Where on earth had Elijah come up with that ridiculous story, anyway?  He was really a Death Eater under an Age Charm…didn't magical aging come from potions?  _Man, if he's got to lie, at least he could get his facts straight, _she thought, covering her eyes with the palm of her hand.  The light was starting to feel terribly bright.  But what if it was true?  What if he really _was _the one who had saved her life?  

            No, that wasn't possible.  It couldn't be.  She was beginning to make things up again, to believe things that couldn't possibly be true.  _Abby, Paul's right – you really do have to stop being so bloody gullible.  _She reached behind her neck and carefully slid off the necklace.  Elijah did make one good point – when she took off the necklace, the throbbing from her scar began to subside.  Was that why it had turned green?  

            _There really ought to be an age restriction on these tall tales.  No fairy tales past five years old._

She could feel herself drifting off into sleep and tried to startle herself away.  She still had a mountain of packing to do.  No matter how many lies she'd been told, the truth was still there, staring her right in the face: her parents were coming to take her come tomorrow morning.  She gave a giant sigh and pried herself off the chair.  It felt as though she'd been sitting there for ages.  Actually, it was starting to become comfortable.  Maybe too comfortable, really.  

            On her way up to the girl's dormitory, she struggled to reason things out.

            _Okay, benefit of the doubt.  Let's say Elijah's telling the truth.  So now I know who the Dark wizard is who's been troubling my parents – him.  Isn't it?  It sort of makes sense.  But if he's been threatening them, why would he tell me?  Why wouldn't he just finish me off?  Oh my god – the necklace.  He _can't _kill me.  What if he's already tried and discovered he can't?  Is that why he wants to get to my parents first?  What if he's already had this all planned out?  He'll scare my parents into getting me a Secret-Keeper, then bam!  He'll strike, right in the middle of the spell.  _

_            Abigail, _came another voice from even deeper within herself.  This voice was soothing, almost in the tone of her mother.  _Go upstairs and pack so you can get some sleep.  You're starting to talk to yourself again.    _

            


	21. Going home

*~* thank you guys for the _wonderful _support.  Incidentally, since I've been asked about this, the "he" at the end of chapter 9 is Daniel Radcliffe.  Long story.  Anyway, I've had about a dozen ideas for the direction of this story and this seemed the best, so…enjoy!  It should get to the exciting part in a few chapters *~*

The next morning was nothing unusual for Abby.  She woke, same time as always, and ate breakfast normally.  No one suspected anything was wrong.  In fact, if Lily and Paul hadn't known the half of the story they knew, they wouldn't have said a thing.  Abby didn't act any differently at all.  She made jokes along with the rest of the Gryffindors, every now and then giving a wink to Elijah behind her.  She refused to accept the story he'd told her. She also refused to let it affect her in the least.  As far as she was concerned, nothing had changed in her world.  Her friends were still her friends, and, unfortunately, her enemies were still her enemies.  Hugh was still teasing her about her name, but she was getting used to that.  She was almost able to completely ignore him now.

She attended her first two classes of the morning as usual.  Charms was first, and then Muggle Studies.  This was usually her break class.  After all, her father treated her family as if they were all Muggles, anyway.  Professor Sands, while a very good teacher, could do nothing but bore her about 25 ways Muggles started fires.  She had her head half on her arm, scribbling notes about the essay they were to do for homework that night, when Professor Dumbledore came into the room.  Abby was very nearly asleep on her desk.  She had been up all night, determined to read each and every entry Harry had made in his diary.  Of course, that was before she learned that it went all the way through to his seventh year.  She had gotten about halfway through year five before she completely conked out.  Now Dumbledore found her an exhausted heap on top of her desk.

"Excuse me Professor, but may I please see Miss Potter for a moment?" he asked, trying to force a smile.  Abby could see that the sparkle in his eyes was somewhat gone.  He apparently wasn't very pleased with her parents' decision.  Then again, neither was she.  She lifted her head up from her desk, and Professor Sands nodded at her to leave.  She gave a sleepy yawn, slung her bag over her shoulder, and headed off with Dumbledore.

"Your parents are here," he told her, a bit somberly for his usual tone.  "They've been here for about an hour, but Professor Snape needed to teach his last class and make some final preparations.  You will be heading home with them, and around two this afternoon the Minister will be by to perform the necessary spell.  You have all your things packed?"

"Yes," she lied.  Each word he said went in one ear and back out the other.  Nothing registered.  But she didn't feel numb; quite the contrary.  She didn't feel any differently than if he was escorting her personally to a class.  They walked past several whispering portraits and up and down several staircases.  At one wall Dumbledore turned and muttered a knock-knock joke.  The door formed in peals of laughter, and he opened it for Abby.  One staircase later, they stood in front of the Fat Lady leading into the Gryffindor tower.

"I'll tell your parents you're on your way.  We'll be in the Great Hall," he told her, a trace of sadness in his voice.  She nodded, turned to the portrait, and announced, "Diggle daggle."  It swung wide open, revealing the common room she was told she would never see again.  Unless the Dark wizard was caught and her father permitted the spell to be lifted…_yeah, like that'll happen, _she thought bitterly, climbing the stairs to her dormitory.  

Her trunk remained wide open, her various clothing strewn all over it.  But she completely ignored that.  Rather, she bent down, took out her wand, and proceeded to remove Harry's diary from the dusty floorboards.  It was in its usual, tattered condition, precisely as she'd left it.  The sight of it returned the smile to her face.  She absently left the floorboard open as she made her way downstairs, and only realized it halfway toward the Great Hall.  Should she go back and close it?  _Nah, _came that pesky little voice in her head, _who's going to find out?  They've all got class, remember?  _Reassuring herself with that thought, she entered the Hall.

There were her parents, as Dumbledore had promised.  The group of four sat around a small table the headmaster had set up in the center of the room.  Dumbledore and her father were talking animatedly across the table from each other.  Her father had his arm around her mother, who was looking more frightened than Abby felt.  Snape, as usual, was sitting slightly apart from everyone, brooding in his usual dark manner.  Abby wondered if _he _was the Dark wizard causing her family such turmoil.  Her father looked up the moment Abby walked in and stood, smiling.

"Abigail, thank goodness…but where are your things?" he asked, the smile dropping from his face.  Abby stood tall and defiant in front of him, her shoulders thrown back and her head held high.  She clutched the diary closer toward her.  Snape looked as though he'd just bitten by a flobber worm.

"I'm not going," she told him coolly.  "You two can do what you like, but I'm old enough to make my own decisions.  And I say I'm staying right here.  You can't make me go with you – Mrs. Finnigan won't stand for it.  ***please don't get confused – Mrs. Finnigan is the same person as Professor Granger***  I've already asked her.  Dad, I found this in my room."  She handed him the diary that had been her saving grace for the past few weeks.  His eyes were widened, and they slightly misted over at the sight of the old book.  He seemed stricken speechless by his daughter's rebelliousness, but she kept it up.  She could almost see a smile creeping across Dumbledore's face, much as he tried to disguise it.  

"I've read most of it already.  Harry's been my best friend lately.  Do you remember him?  He would never have allowed this to happen.  He wouldn't run to pull his daughter out of school so that he could get her a Secret-Keeper.  He wouldn't hide.  No, he would try to find out who was causing the trouble, he and Ron and Hermione, and they would fight.  Are you looking into this?  Are you fighting?  Or are you just going to run and hide?"

"You will not speak to your father in that tone, Abigail," said Snape, seeming enraged that she would say such a thing.  "You will treat him with the same respect that I've given you this school year."

"Yeah?  You want me to tell him he can never do anything right, and that he'll never amount to anything because he's a Potter?" she spat bitterly.  Snape's eyes flared, and he opened his mouth to protest but Dumbledore stopped him with a wave of his wrist.  He was clearly very interested in hearing what she had to say.  She was thrilled to have _someone _on her side at last.

Harry took in these words for a moment, shocked that they had left his daughter's lips.  His mouth opened and closed several times, but no words came out.  Instead, it was November who came to his rescue.  She came and stood beside Harry, facing off against Abby.

"Abby, we're doing this for your own good," she said gently.  Abby turned on her.

"My own good?!" she exclaimed.  "You're going to take me away from all my friends and a good education and stick me with my least favorite person in the whole world, leaving me extremely vulnerable to attack – all for my own _good?  _You're _joking!  _No, I'm much safer here.  At home I've got Snape.  Here I've got Dumbledore.  Now, if you don't mind, Mrs. Finnigan is expecting me for tea this period."

November's tone because a bit more stern.  "Abigail Mae Potter, I _do _mind.  You've got 15 minutes to pack and get into the carriage.  Hurry up now; Hagrid's waiting."  

During all of this, Harry was still examining his old diary.  Very gingerly he opened it in his palm, pressing on the middle with his other hand to keep it steady.  He began to flip through the pages.  Everyone's attention turned to him now.  He was the strength of their argument, the power behind their reasoning.  However, he had become preoccupied with the boy Abby had come to know as "just Harry".  He gave a slight chuckle and read aloud one of his entries.

"June 15

Friday

Well, we did it.  Can you believe it?  Me and Ron and Hermione found the monster that's been attacking the school!  Actually, Hermione was the one that figured out _what_ it was_.  _Ron and I figured out _where _it was.  Moaning Myrtle's bathroom!  I can't believe we didn't think of it before.  Anyway, he and I went into the Chamber of Secrets together, but I had to grab Ginny.  Yes, she's alive, thank God.  So's Hermione.  They gave her the mandrake potion, and now she's the same as ever.  

Point is, we almost had to leave the school.  Can you imagine?  No more Hogwarts!  Stuck with the Dursleys for the rest of my life!  I'd go out of my mind!  But with Dumbledore here, I'm more protected than I would be anywhere else.  Even with a Secret-Keeper.  Maybe that's what my mum and dad should have done, instead of getting a Secret-Keeper – stay at Hogwarts.  Or both, even.  Oh, but it's so good to know I'll be coming back here next here.  I think that's the only thing that'll get me through the summer."

Harry looked at Abby, his wife, then Abby again, and then over at Dumbledore who gave an approving nod.  He turned once again to his daughter.

"I think this says it all," he said softly.  "All right, you can stay.  But I expect Dumbledore to keep a very close eye on you.  We're going to investigate this, more so than the Ministry will.  I think we'll get the whole Order on the case, and of course my old friends Ron and Hermione.  But you're still to call them Mr. Weasley and Mrs. Finnigan – or rather, Professor Granger.  And the minute we discover you're in trouble, you're to come straight home and we're performing the spell.  That is," he added, looking curiously at November, "if that's all right with your mother."

November sighed loudly.  "Well…all right, I suppose.  Your father and I will discuss this a little more in depth, and until we decide for sure what to do, you may stay here at Hogwarts.  Perhaps your father will be willing to allow _me _to become _his _Keeper?"

"Perhaps," said Harry with a smile.  "Perhaps."

*~* So what do you think?  Too easily solved? Be honest! *~*    


	22. The real Friend of the Foe

            *~* This is a bit shorter than most of my other chapters.  It's also much more fast-paced.  Chapter 19 was where everything in Abby's world began to turn upside down, and it only gets crazier from there.  Thank you for the reviews (again); on with the story! *~*

November stormed angrily into the house, slamming the door behind her.  She was not at all pleased with the way things had gone, and had had the entire ride home to think on it.  Harry winced at the sound of the door.  He was in trouble again and he knew it.

            "How could do that?!" she cried out, her frustration reverberating off the walls.  "How could you let her get away with that?  You promised me, Harry!  You _promised _we could get a Secret-Keeper!  You're a bloody liar, that's what you are.  Nothing but a pathetic, proud liar.  God, how am I supposed to raise another child like this?"  Harry gave a great sigh, tossing his car keys on the kitchen table.  He had insisted on driving home, as much as November protested that they could simply Apparate.  After all, he had taken the car to the train station – they might as well drive it home.

            "November, we've had this discussion before.  She'll be perfectly safe at Hogwarts.  Dumbledore's got her under his wing.  When Mr. Fudge gets here, we'll just tell him that you're going to be my Secret-Keeper.  Is that all right with you?  You're the one who suggested we do that, anyway.  I don't understand why you're complaining now."  He massaged his temples gently and headed for the couch in the living room.  This whole ordeal was exhausting him.

            Meanwhile, November glared at him, her hands pressed into her hips.  "I don't want an excuse to give the Minister.  I want you to go retrieve your daughter.  You saw those letters!  She's in danger at Hogwarts!  'Oh, Dumbledore can protect her.'  Remember your fourth year?  Some job Dumbledore did in protecting Cedric, eh?"  

            Harry whirled around on the balls of his heels.  His bright green eyes flashed with resentment.  "What did you say?" he asked in awed whisper.  "Cedric?  Cedric died because of _me, _not Dumbledore.  Dumbledore had absolutely nothing to do with it.  He assumed we were perfectly safe inside that maze.  We all did.  No one expected the Cup to be portkey.  And besides, _I_ was the one who convinced Cedric to take the Cup with me.  _I _was the pig-headed one who made that decision.  If I hadn't done that, he would still be alive.  So don't blame the headmaster for a mistake _I _made."  His eyes glittered softly with tears, but he blinked them away quickly.  The last thing he needed was for his wife to see that the incident still hurt him.  

            November sighed, the same exhausted sigh that Harry gave just moments earlier.  "Harry, that murder had nothing to do with you and you know it.  That's not what I meant.  It's just, how many times under Dumbledore's eyes has Voldemort tried to kill you?  Far too many.  I don't feel right leaving Abby there.  I just don't think she's safe."  

            Harry approached her carefully.  The both of them were clearly exhausted, and he was beginning to wonder if she was really as upset as she seemed.  He placed his hands gently on her crossed arms.  She didn't argue.  "Em, honey, I know.  Believe me, I know.  But will you also believe that Abby, young as she may be, made a good point?  We can't begin to protect ourselves unless we know what we're protecting ourselves _against.  _'The Friend of the Foe'.  A Death Eater, right?  Well, that's not much to go on.  There's dozens of Death Eaters, and it's impossible to guess who's one and who's not.  After all, it's not like they go around in special robes, wearing special badges – "  Just then came a powerful knock on the door.  The couple exchanged a look, as though trying to silently decide who would get the door.  

            "I'll get it," said November with a sigh.  "It's probably Mr. Fudge."  Harry gently kissed her cheek before she pulled away from his embrace and headed for the front door.  _Once again he thinks he can make up for everything with kisses, _she thought, slightly annoyed.  _He thinks this is so much easier than it is.  _She unlocked the door carefully, making sure to open it just a crack before admitting the person on the other side into the house.  Recent events had made her particularly cautious, borderline paranoid.  But she was all right; the only person she saw there was, as expected, the Minister of Magic.  She opened the door all the way for him.

            "Minister, please, come in…" she said, motioning for him to enter.  "It's so good of you to come – "  She cut herself off when he came charging into the room.  He wasn't alone.  He was dragging a young boy with him, a boy who was making faces from the pain in the wrist Mr. Fudge was dragging him by.  He was young, scarcely older than Abby, with stark-black hair and pale blue eyes.  He also looked a little familiar, though why November couldn't say.  _His son?  Nephew?  Son of a friend?  But why does he look so familiar?_ she thought.  Mr. Fudge seemed frazzled by the boy.

            "Sit," he instructed, motioning toward the couch in the living room.  The boy did as he was told and flopped down on the couch.  For the second time that day, Harry was left speechless.

            Mr. Fudge gave a great sigh.  "I apologize for bringing this young ruffian with me," he said, with a nasty glance toward the couch.  The boy gulped hard.  "We at the Ministry believe him to be the one sending you those notes.  'Friend of the Foe', is it?  We've traced back hundreds of owls and are considering sending him to the Underage Wizard Detention Center.  This could be a capital crime, but as the boy is only 12 years old…"

            "His name," said November simply.  Harry and Mr. Fudge looked at her oddly, encouraging her to continue.

            "His name," she repeated.  "I want to know his name."  This ruffled Mr. Fudge, as though it wasn't quite what he'd expected her to say.

            "Oh.  Well, yes, of course.  His name is Elijah Young.  A first-year at Hogwarts.  We pulled him out of school for this, of course, right out of Transfiguration…he's a Slytherin as well," he added in a whisper.  "And you know what they say about young wizards in Slytherin."  

            Harry hardly seemed to hear a word that was said; he was more intrigued by the strange boy that had followed Mr. Fudge inside.  He sat with Elijah, who looked absolutely terrified by being in his presence.  He was beginning to wring his hands nervously.  Harry stopped him by gently placing his hand over Elijah's.  "_Are _you the one sending us these notes?" he said softly.  Elijah nodded gravely.  

            "Please sir, if you'll just let me explain…" he trailed off anxiously.  Harry looked at November and mouthed the words, "Is that okay with you?"  November thought about it for a moment.  _Well, at least he's _trying _to make things right by asking you first.  Not a bad start.  And the boy…well, _that's _how I know him!  Abby's mentioned him several times in her letters.  He seems to have deceived her terribly well…I suppose he ought to have his say at least, before they send him off to the Center.  _She gave a quick nod, and Harry turned back to Elijah.

            "You have five minutes to explain," he said, his voice growing cold.  Elijah took a deep breath.

            "Well, sir, you see, it's like this…there's…a Dark wizard.  A Death Eater.  He's been trying to kill you for ages, but obviously he hasn't been able to.  You're too well-protected.  But, see, Abby – I mean, your daughter – she's incredibly vulnerable.  Especially here.  At Hogwarts she's impossible to get to.  And this wizard, he knows that.  He figured he had to lure her back to her home, where she's more easily dispensable.  So he wrote those letters, thinking that if you thought Abby's life was in danger at Hogwarts, you might pull her out and bring her home.  And sir, he almost succeeded."  

            "So 'Friend of the Foe'…that _does _mean he's a Death Eater," November mused aloud.  She had approached the couch during Elijah's explanation and now leaned against the back thoughtfully.  Elijah shook his head vigorously.

            "Oh no ma'am.  I'm not the Dark wizard who wrote those notes.  I was just able to intercept them, you see, because I knew the person who was sending them.  I'm the 'Friend of the Foe', but I assure you, I did not write those notes."

            Harry lifted his eyebrow questioningly.  "But if you're on our side, if you're our ally, how are we 'the Foe'?  That part doesn't make sense."  Elijah swallowed hard again.  He bent his head down low in shame.

            "I used to be a Death Eater," he said in barely more than a whisper.  "Ask Mr. Fudge.  I'm not really 12 years old.  This is an Age Charm.  And my name's not Elijah.  It's Raphael.  I was a Death Eater until my Dark Death when I was 16."

            "Dark Death?" asked November.  Here Elijah found the courage to lift his head and nod.

            "Yes ma'am, that's what we call it when one of us leaves the Dark Lord.  He doesn't approve of it, and anyone who tries it is likely to end up dead.  I'm surprised I made it this far."  

            November looked over at Mr. Fudge.  The story was sensational, and she wondered if she had enough naivety in her to believe even part of it.  But Mr. Fudge nodded in confirmation.  "He's telling the truth, Mrs. Potter.  It's all on record, has been for years.  But we won't put him into custody until you decide what to do with him.  It's all up to you and Mr. Potter what becomes of this man in a child's body."  

            Harry was still more concerned with Elijah than either his wife or the Minister.  "Yes, well, I have several more questions for Mr. Young here."

            "Demore," corrected Elijah, who wasn't Elijah at all, but Raphael just pretending.

            "All right, Mr. Demore then," Harry continued.  "What made you turn away from Voldemort?"  Raphael glanced down at his war-torn hands.  They were beginning to tremble slightly.  Hadn't he told this story already?  But then, he hadn't expected Harry Potter to believe him up to this point.  All things considered, he was really rather lucky.  He took a deep breath, and started to, once again, reveal the story of his past.

            "Your daughter, Mr. Potter.  She's what made me turn away from the Dark Arts altogether…"   


	23. The Potter name

*~* Whew!  What a wild ride so far, eh?  Well, I realized you might need a moment or two to absorb the shock of all that's happened.  The characters need that too, so that's really all this chapter is about – accepting the truth and trying to decide what to do next.  That's why it's so terribly short.    

Then we'll dive right back into the action, all right?  All right.  Here we go… *~*        

Raphael finished his story and looked up expectantly at the Potters.  November was lost deep in thought, playing with the idea of its truth in her mind.  Could such a thing even be possible?  Harry, on the other hand, was looking toward Fudge for reassurance.  Fudge had his arms crossed firmly across his chest.  Harry marveled at how intimidating he could look sometimes.

            "It all appears to be true," said Fudge sternly.  "The Ministry has run test after test, I assure you, and every word he speaks is apparently in truth.  But the fact remains: he has threatened murder and death on you both, regardless of his reasoning, and therefore – "

            "But I just said I didn't do it!" Raphael interrupted indignantly.  "I'm on your side, Mr. and Mrs. Potter, honest I am.  I haven't threatened murder or death or any of that rubbish.  _I'm trying to protect Abby as much as you are.  _The Dark Lord, he knows.  He's found out about me and somehow or other traced me back to you.  If I was trying to give you over to Voldemort, do you honestly think I would have given Abby that necklace?"

            Harry eased back against the couch, formed a temple with his fingertips, and pressed his hands against the bridge of his nose.  He closed his eyes.  That horrible pounding between his eyes was beginning again, driving into the very core of his skull.  He remembered all too well what had happened on that night 11 years ago.  He was in the middle of a meeting with the Department of Muggle Protection when Sarah Legrant, his co-worker for years, came rushing into the room.  

_"Harry, come quick.  It's November, and she sounds terribly upset.  All we can understand is that it has something to do with Abby."  Fear rushed into his heart as he excused himself from the table of department heads.  Abby?  Was she all right?  Had Voldemort…?  Of course, that had been the only thing on his mind since Abby was born.  He didn't care half as much about protection from Death Eaters as he did protection from the Dark Lord.  Voldemort has risen and regained power not too long ago.  Harry had a high price on his head, as did anyone else carrying the Potter name.  ***hence the name of the story, ta-da!***  He'd spent months making sure his family was safe.  Had that safety been called into question?_

_Praying that no harm had come to his daughter, his pride and joy, he followed Sarah into the meeting room.  There was a large fireplace at the center of the room.  The flames had been turned a brilliant blue shade, and November's face was recognizable through them.  Her hair was disheveled and there were dark streaks trailing down her cheeks.  She was sobbing something incomprehensible.  Harry flattened himself against the floor to be at her level._

_"November, amor, what's wrong?" he said, choking down his own fear and trying to sound as comforting as possible.  November sniffled hard and tried to take a breath, but it came out as more of a cough.  Harry tried to slow his rapidly beating heart by taking his own deep breath._

_"Harry – there's been an attack – right here – woke up this morning – door unlocked – Abby's room – window open – oh Harry, Abby has a scar on her forehead, and it looks just like yours."  Harry needed no convincing.  He explained to Sarah that he was Apparating home that instant, walked off the Ministry steps, and did just that.  He left it to his co-worker to explain, but he was sure it would be no problem.  After all, as Head Phoenix, he had quite a bit of clout at the Ministry.  Besides, all that mattered was that his daughter had narrowly avoided Voldemort…or at least, that was what he assumed._

_Sure enough, when he got home, he found Abby just as November had described – sleeping, with a light jagged mark atop her right eye that strangely resembled his own.  Harry swallowed and pressed his thumb against the cut.  The sleeping child moved in her sleep but went on with her infantile dreams.  It burned against his finger in the same way his own scar did when he touched it.  Of course, it wasn't quite as dark as his scar, and with the right spells it could easily be hidden.  Nonetheless, it had finally happened – Voldemort had tried to murder his family and clearly failed.  _

_"There's something else, too," November said in hushed whisper.  "She wasn't wearing that necklace last night."_

They had put together that the necklace was what had saved Abby's life that night, but never did Harry think he would come face-to-face with her rescuer.  Never had he even imagined that her rescuer would be this young boy that sat before him now.  

"No," said Harry softly, still lost deep within himself.  "No, you would not.  But why are you helping us?  Why does it matter so much to you that you would my daughter's life above your own?  That's precisely what you're doing, you know.  You could be killed in your naïve attempts to protect Abby."

"I know that.  And I told you – I love her.  I would do anything for her.  Even if it means risking my life to save hers," Raphael replied.  He tried to keep his voice as soft as Harry's; it had set a mood, and he didn't want to frighten anyone anymore.  He just wanted the truth to be known.  

November stepped behind Harry and placed her hands lovingly on his shoulders.  He was still trying to put things into perspective.  "All right, let me try to understand all this.  You used to be a Death Eater.  You came after my daughter, my own flesh and blood, because you were instructed by Voldemort to do so.  But in doing so, you fell in love with her, and now you want to protect her.  You saved her life, foiling the plans Voldemort had already set out for you.  Someone's after you now because you upset Voldemort's plans.  This is the part that makes so little sense.  If they're after you, why are they threatening my family?"

Fudge came in and answered the question for him.  "Harry, I can't believe you could be so blind.  The Dark Lord and his followers have been after you for years.  You know that.  They believe you to be too powerful, particularly as a Muggle protector.  Until [he said the name in a considerably hushed tone] Voldemort is brought back down again, you will be risking your life defending Muggles as you have these many years.  You've joined an awful battle, Harry.  The Death Eaters don't necessarily play fair."

"I am well aware of that.  That doesn't answer my question.  If they're after Elijah or Raphael or _whatever _his name is, why are they trying to murder my family?"

"They're bitter, Mr. Potter," Raphael explained, "and a bit vindictive.  You see, as a Death Eater, the closer you come to harming a Potter, the greater you are in Voldemort's eyes.  I came close to bringing harm on a Potter; in fact, I was very nearly able to murder Abby.  The only thing that could have stopped me was myself, which thank Merlin I did.  But the other Death Eaters were, well, jealous that I could do such a thing.  They were enraged that someone could have the opportunity to murder a Potter and not follow through with it.  So this particular Death Eater wanted revenge.  He would kill me first off, and return me as a trophy to his master.  Then he would kill Abby.  In his strange, twisted mind he figured that bringing us both back to Voldemort would improve his position in his master's eyes."

"And who, pray tell, would this Dark wizard be?"  This time it was November's turn to ask a question.  She had been wondering all along, but Harry simply would not take the conversation in that direction.  She could not even begin to guess why, though; it seemed an obvious enough question to ask.  Raphael kept the courage and strength in his voice.  His interrogation was beginning to feel a bit like the Spanish Inquisition, but he let it go and answered the question as best he could.

"I would think that obvious, Mrs. Potter.  Mr. Michael Turner has been in Azkaban several times over for his support of the Dark Arts.  He and Mr. Draco Malfoy have been turning the wizarding world upside-down of late.  It was originally Mr. Malfoy's idea to torture you.  Mr. Turner was the one who took it into his head to get revenge."  

"I still don't understand.  How do you know so much about this?" November asked.  Harry had conducted the questioning with his eyes closed and his head leaned back, but suddenly shot straight up.  His glasses tumbled right off his nose in his haste.  His eyes had flown open, and now he grabbed November's wrist tight enough to break it.  She cried out slightly from the pain.

"November, our secret spot.  Apparate.  Now."          


	24. Betrayal

            *~* I've been reading some really terrific fanfiction lately, so hopefully some of your writing has rubbed up on me…I don't know how to explain this chapter, really, so read on and find out for yourself  J *~*

            November landed with a soft thud against the thick, wet grass.  It was early evening in this place, and from the heavy scent the air carried it had just rained.  Her arms were splattered with mud and bits of wet grass, and her elbows ached in quiet protest at having been used to break her fall.  A dull pain in her knees told her she had scraped those as well.  But these were minor bumps and bruises, and she quickly scrambled to her feet.  She shook her hair in the light breeze, trying to regain her breath after the stomach-churning Apparation she had just performed.  The evening sky was beautiful, but her thoughts were too preoccupied for her to notice anything more.  

            "Harry?" she called out tentatively into the twilight.  "Harry, where are you?"  Clearly she had been the first to arrive.  She wasn't alone for long.  A heavy wind brushed past her cheek, and in moments a very distraught Harry appeared beside her.  He seemed almost to trip on himself, landing face-first in the wet mud as she had.  Ordinarily she would have chuckled lightly from amusement, having done the same thing moments ago, but she was too frightened and filled with worry to do anything of the sort.  Instead, she put her arms around his waist and gently helped him to his feet.  He thanked her.

            Harry and November's "secret spot" was a place off the coast of Spain that the Order of the Phoenix had set up for them.  It was well known to all in the wizarding world that Potter was a dangerous name to carry.  The Potters were currently risking their very lives, which could be ended at any moment.  At any given moment Voldemort could walk in their door and strike them both dead.  Because of this, everyone in the Order had a spot, some little nook in the world that was known only to them.  If they ever felt threatened, they were to Apparate instantly to this spot.  The logic behind this was that, since no one knew of this spot save for them, there could be no betrayals, no way for a Dark wizard to attack them.  November came here regularly, but Harry had only been here once or twice.  

            He impatiently brushed his stringy black hair out of his eyes – which, November noticed, were no longer hidden behind his glasses.  He seemed to have yet to notice this.

            "Em, listen to me," he said hastily, as though Voldemort could appear there in a moment's pause.  "There's only one way this – this Raphael character could know so much about Voldemort's plan.  He's in on it.  He's got to be.  It's impossible to get into the Dark Lord's inner circle now unless you've been born into it or…or you've been fighting against him with such ferocity that he wants that strength on his side."  He said this with a slightly sad tone.  He knew full well he was talking about himself.  He paused for a beat or two, thinking on this, then returned to his fevered pace.

            "Malfoy and Turner wouldn't just hand a wizard these plans on a silver platter, nor would Voldemort allow one of his right-hand men to slip away so easily or for so long.  He's lying; I know he is.  I believe the Age Charm part.  How many times have those and Age Potions been used?  It's an enormous file at the Ministry.  I've seen it.  But warning us?  No, he's the Dark one who's been _threatening _us."  Unbeknownst to him, he had self-consciously begun to pace about the field, his hands clutched tightly behind his back.  November simply stood and watched.   

            "But Harry, _no entiendo._*Fudge brought him over.  Wouldn't Fudge have known if Raphael was really a Dark wizard?" November questioned curiously.  Harry looked at her as if to say, _Fudge?  Are you joking?_

"Mr. _Fudge?_" Harry asked incredulously.  "He wouldn't know a Dark wizard if he came waltzing right into the Ministry and turned him into a toad.  Honestly, Dumbledore should have taken that position ages ago when he had the chance."  He went on pacing about the vacated area, now muttering unpleasantries about the Minister of Magic and the things he would do in his place.  November, though, crossed her arms firmly across her chest and shot her husband a dirty look.  She didn't much appreciate his impatient pacing about the open field.  It was making her terribly anxious.

            "Yes, well, I _enjoy _being able to sleep at night knowing my daughter is protected by the most powerful wizard who ever lived.  Which, by the way, I'm still not altogether pleased with.  You promised me a Secret-Keeper.  One little diary entry later you're going back on your word."

            "November, I remember when I was her age!  I know how she feels!  I understand it because I – "  But before he could finish, another bright flash of light told them they were no longer alone.  Fear once again gripped her heart.  They were supposed to be alone.  No one else knew of this area, much less any wizards that knew how to Apparate.  The wind that brushed past was heavy, strong, and unbearably cold.  Harry visibly shivered as it passed him, ruffling his hair into a greater entanglement than it had been before.  Another loud _thud _and a mesh of black robes appeared on the patch of grass beside them.  It took a moment before either of them recognized the figure.  When she did, she gasped and gave a half-stifled cry.

            "Abigail!"  Harry was still squinting into the night, struggling to see without his glasses.  He'd never realized before how much he'd taken those nerdish round glasses for granted before.  He knew from November's cry of anguish that it was his daughter, though, and a large lump formed in his throat.  It threatened to break and completely choke him, but he kept it down and forced his voice out through it.

            "Who's there?" he demanded of the blurry night.  A hoarse cackle broke the former silence.  It chilled the air more than the wind did, and he shivered again to hear it.  He loathed the sound of it.  Immediately his eyes lowered to slits, his fists clenching in bitter rage.  He'd heard that laugh dozens of times in his young life.  The figure clothed in darkness could be none but Voldemort himself.  The fact that his wife had just called out his daughter's name didn't bring him much comfort, either.  

            A sudden, shrill shriek broke through.  "Mum!  Dad!  It's a trick!  Please, please get out…please…Dad, he doesn't want me; he wants you – "  November gave a sharp sob.  Harry could see her outline reaching out into the night, reaching for their Abby.  He grabbed her wrist, and she gave another cry at this.  She was now trembling so fiercely it was a wonder her whole frame didn't come tumbling down.  

            "No, November," he said authoritatively.  "You heard her.  You don't belong here.  He won't kill Abby if he hungers for my blood alone.  You get her out of here and you get her out now."  He shot a dirty look at the figure that was beginning to stand.  His gentle tone dropped.  "This battle has been meant for 28 years now.  It's time the Phoenixes take up their crown again."  

            He dropped her wrist, and suddenly November knew.  She had been guarding her husband against this for so many years she could no longer count them.  He wanted this chance to face Voldemort face-to-face again.  So much of his fighting had been behind potions and charms and other wizards of the Phoenix.  He wasn't being egotistical.  He just wanted the chance.  She nodded, though she knew he couldn't see her in this light, and proceeded to draw her wand from her robes with a slightly steady hand.

            "Abby has no place in this," Harry called out strongly.  "Nor does my wife.  You let them be, and you face me like the wizard you claim to be.  If you must slaughter my family to get to me, then you are nothing but a coward."  Again the cold, cruel laugh.  November fought with herself not to drop her wand for the quivering that returned to her hand.

            "Ah Potter, such an ego you have!  I don't want you if I can't have Abigail as well.  You don't understand, boy that you still are.  The Potter line is far too powerful.  If you will not fight with me, perhaps your daughter will."

            "I will not!" came the broken voice of defiance.  November was crying again, and Harry was on the verge of tears himself.  The form from which the voice came hadn't risen to her feet as the other had.  Her voice was distinctly Abby, but Harry hated to think of what Voldemort had done to get her here.  After all, it took very dark magic to Apparate with someone who had yet to get his or her license.  Apparating in and of itself was complicated enough.  But to use it to kidnap a child required a magic darker than Harry thought Voldemort was capable of.  He dove his hand into his robes.  Voldemort kicked at Abby's grounded frame, and she gave a yelp from the pain.  Harry could feel his heart grow red-hot.

            "Quiet, girl," he hissed.  "If you will not fight with me, then I will kill you as well."

            "Over my dead body!" Harry snarled.  Voldemort swept over, his black robes billowing in the slight wind.  

            "My dear boy, that's the idea."  November saw this opportunity to dash over to Abby.  She dropped to her knees and started to dig at the robes to find her daughter beneath.  Harry could only see the two most precious people in his life there on the ground, each fighting to find the other.  November was crying something about her baby being betrayed, but much more than that Harry couldn't tell.  He turned to Voldemort, brandishing his wand and clutching it tightly.  He didn't have to see the Dark Lord to know that he hated him more than he hated anything in his life.  Loneliness, despair, heartache…none of it was as powerful as the hatred he felt for this dark wizard.

            "Would you care to see what I've learned since the last time we dueled, Potter?" he said casually.  He then turned around, pointed his wand at November, and shouted, "Disapparate!"  Harry watched helplessly as a forest-green light fell over his wife like a net, illuminating every pale feature of her face.  Abby was clawing at her and begging her not to go, but it seemed November had no choice.  A look of excruciating pain came over her, and with a loud _pop _she was gone.  Abby's head fell back against the ground and she began to cry with terror.  Harry was now so angry his wand had begun to shiver.  He raised it and opened to his mouth to speak, but Voldemort interrupted him.

            "Yes, I do believe a duel would be the only fair way to handle this.  You see, Potter?  I can be fair.  You have your second here.  Now let me bring mine."  He turned again, this time calling out to someplace behind Abby's severely injured figure.  "Raphael!  Come out here."  Voldemort stepped back and grinned as another darkly robed wizard emerged from the distance.  It was the same Raphael that Harry had met just moments ago, yet he looked nothing the same.  Instead of the terrified, hurt little boy Harry had met, this one seemed dead-set on his intentions.  Through the blur Harry could see that his eyes were somewhat glazed over, and his gait seemed a bit awkward.  _The Imperius Curse, _he thought, his eyes widening unintentionally with realization.  _Of course.  He's under the Imperius Curse.  He hasn't betrayed Abby.  He's been on our side all along!  _Guilt throbbed in his throat.

            "Raphael has tried to leave me.  For years he thought he'd succeeded.  What he failed to realize was that Lord Voldemort knows all.  This is the perfect opportunity to punish him for his actions.  You see, Potter, just as your parents were betrayed, so was your poor daughter."  Voldemort's attention went to Raphael, who was standing obediently beside Abby awaiting orders.  Harry knew now that he had more people to fight for than he'd thought.  He had to fight for November, for Abby, for the Order, for Raphael.  He had to fight for Phoenix wizards everywhere.  There was something very strengthening about this thought.

            "You get rid of the girl.  I have awaited this battle for far too long."       

* _no entiendo_: I don't understand 


	25. The battle of the Phoenixes

            *this has a really funny background story I thought you might like to know.  I was in church when I had the idea for this part.  Actually, it was this chapter that inspired the story as a whole, but anyway.  As I let it play through my mind, watching every detail to make sure it fit, I was in awe of my own abilities.  I was pretty gosh darn proud that I'd come up with it, and in the middle of church I exclaimed, "Wow, I have to write that down!"  Everyone looked at me like I was nuts.  True story!  But I've finally written it down, and now it's yours to enjoy.

            I know it moves a little quickly, and it's a bit longer than the other chapters, but any more detail and I figured you'd be napping by the third paragraph.  But it's full of action, and I thought if it moved fast it would be easier to feel the action as it happens.  Thank you all for your support (especially you, Elham Weasley!!!) , and let me know what you think*

            Abby shivered as the dark form of Elijah – or was it Raphael? – advanced on her.  Her head still throbbed from the events that had taken place not moments before.  She remembered very little of it, actually.  She remembered Raphael (for that seemed to be his name now) coming over to her after dinner that evening, telling her about something he'd seen by the Dark Forest.  She remembered going with him toward the Forest, though her better judgment had warned her against it.  She remembered being led toward an odd shadow, and watching the shadow raise a wand and thrust it at her, and she remembered shrieking at the top of her lungs.  Much more than that was only a blur in her memory.

             She did know, however, of everything that had happened since she'd regained consciousness.  It had come when she'd landed here, on this slippery, rock-hard surface.  She'd landed hard on the packed dirt with a resounding _thud_, and heard everything Voldemort had said.  She'd also recognized her parents' voices.  When her mother came to her side to bring her home, she'd seen the look of anguish on her face as Voldemort Apparated her away from Abby. It was a look that would forever be etched in her mind.

            She'd always known her parents lived for fighting as Phoenixes, but she'd never seen them fight.  Abby had never seen the pain and the suffering they endured, nor had she seen the looks of intense resolve that came over them when they face Dark wizards.  She turned her head and could see that very look in her father's eyes at that moment.  He stood strong, firm in his beliefs.  He was going to defend the world against Dark magic or die trying.  A sudden feeling of awe came over her.  Suddenly he was no longer "Dad, who won't allow magic in the house unless it's absolutely necessary".  Nor was he "Harry potter, the Boy Who Lived".  At that moment, as quite possibly the two greatest wizards of the era stood facing each other, the one who fought the Dark Lord was again little more than "just Harry".  Abby knew now what she had to do.  She had to follow in her father's footsteps, even if it meant fighting with someone she once counted a friend.  Even if it meant struggling when she felt too weak to move.  Even if meant death.

            Swallowing hard with sudden determination, she thrust her hand down into her robes and pulled out her wand.  As she was only a first-year student at Hogwarts, she didn't know a great many spells, but she wasn't about to die lying here like a coward.  Raphael stood over her, his wand pointed at her and keeping her from moving.  It was as though he held a sword to her throat, and any sudden movements would result in a horrific death.  She struggled not to let the fear that seized her heart show in her eyes, and narrowed them to tiny slits.

            "Don't move," snarled Raphael.  "The Dark Lord doesn't want you dead.  Not yet, anyway.  You see, he has a marvelous plan for us all.  First he's going to rid the world of the meddlesome wizards who are vainly trying to protect the wizard world.  Then he's going to eliminate all traces of Muggles so that only Dark magic prevails.  Once he's acquired his rightful kingdom, all Death Eaters will become members of his Dark imperial court.  So you see, you really only have two choices.  Join us…or die.  Before you make your decision, you're to watch the defeat of the most powerful Phoenix in existence.  Then you'll see that Lord Voldemort's powers can be rivaled by no one.  His powers were once broken, but he'll soon regain them and exact his revenge.  And you are left to do nothing but watch."  

            Tears sprang to Abby's eyes at this proclamation, but she fought to hold them back.  What good would it do anyone to burst into hysterics at this moment?  She tried to get to her feet, but before she could Raphael shouted out, "_Crucio!_"A dazzling light burst from the end of his wand, hitting her right in the center of her chest.  She was instantly thrown back to the ground, the back of her head hitting first.  The pain was too terrible for words.  The only thing she could liken it to was a thousand poisoned knives digging into her at every angle.  Once their sharp ends had made contact, the poison leaked from them into her skin, setting every vein in her body aflame.  She cried out and heard nothing in reply save Raphael's cold, cruel laugh.  This was the young man who would fall in love with her in later years?  She could scarcely grasp it.

            "I'll do nothing of the sort!" she spoke through clenched teeth.  She didn't trust herself to open her mouth, knowing that if she did she could surely scream.  The last thing such a cold-hearted individual needed to know was that his torture was succeeding.  Raphael kicked her aching body.  A groan passed uninvited through her lips.

            Meanwhile, Harry had all his attention focused on Voldemort.  He knew that no Death Eater in this time had the strength nor the power to effectively execute the Killing Curse.  Abby was not going to die, but she was most certainly not safe here.  He gritted his teeth and held firm his fiery passion for what was right.

            "You let her go…you let her go _now!_" he roared.  "She deserves none of this.  If I'm the one you want, take me.  Or are you too much of a coward to fight by your own hand?"  He spat out the word "coward" as though it tasted something awful.  Voldemort was not at all pleased with being called such and Harry knew it.  But rather than fight back with mere words, Voldemort simply lifted his wand, directed it squarely at the scar on Harry's forehead, and hissed the Killing Curse beneath his breath.  Harry took a deep breath and said the first spell that entered his mind: "Expecto Patronum!"  

***is that right?  I don't have my book to check***

He knew, of course, that it would have no effect, but that made no difference.  It didn't matter what curse either of them uttered.  As they'd both discovered in Harry's fourth year at Hogwarts, when two wands of the same core were forced to do battle, the result would always be the same.  And sure enough, both wizards, equally powerful in their opposing passions, soon found themselves encased by the golden phoenix cage.  Nothing could penetrate this cage, but it was just as well.  If either Raphael or Abby wanted to come to their aid, they couldn't.  The two were busy in their own struggle.  Harry tugged his wand sharply away.  If he'd held on, there might have been a chance he'd have defeated Voldemort forever.  But the chances that the spell would rebound on him were far too high to take.  He was going to duel with Voldemort at last, a proper wizard's duel that would finally be a fair one.

Abby, though, had never seen this effect before, and it intrigued her.  She tried to cry out to her father, but Raphael wasn't having it.  He cursed her again.  This time she couldn't stop herself from screaming.  It was like being battered and beaten to the point of death, and then being tossed back to the ground and feeling all the bruises afresh.  She was crying now, but not because she was afraid.  Her pain was coming out in the form of tears that streaked her dirt-ridden face.

Harry heard his daughter scream and instinctively turned toward her.  "Abby!" he exclaimed, his hands now shaking with indignant rage.  He pointed his wand through the cage and spoke the Cruciatus Curse.  The tip of his wand lit up a deep, blood red, and a stream of red light went crashing to the inner edge of the cage.  It then bounced off it several times over, narrowly avoiding both wizards as it was absorbed into the ground beneath them.  Voldemort laughed.

"It seems, Potter, that this duel is not going to be so much a trial of knowledge as a trial of wits.  And because you've broken contact too soon for the Priori Incantatem ***is that right?*** spell to take effect, this cage is going to remain intact until the rebounding spells finally wear it away.  But no matter.  I'll need but one spell to finish you off, one that not even you could pull off."  And with that, he aimed his wand at his opponent and said almost lazily, "Avada Kedavra."  They were the words every wizard feared to hear.  Harry, knowing there was little chance this would work, fell to his knees and sprawled himself flat against the ground.  He was startled by his own actions.  Ordinarily he would have countered the curse, though it would have almost definitely killed him.  Falling flat to the ground seemed more something the younger Harry would have done.  But it worked; he watched the death that had been meant for him bounce around the upper walls of the cage before landing somewhere on Voldemort's upper torso.  The Dark Lord shrieked at this, because although he'd taken too many precautions against it to die properly, the pain still rippled every corner of his innards.  Harry leapt to his feet to continue with the battle.  

Voldemort had been right.  The only chance Harry had of survival was to dance around the spells shot at him and attempt to use his own against his bitter rival.  After an hour or so of this intense dueling, Harry doubted he could go on very much longer.  Every muscle in his body ached, and every part of his body had grown numb from such tireless movement.  At the same time, Voldemort seemed nowhere near any point of relent.  Harry felt as though he'd been cursed a dozen times over, even though not a single spell had made contact with him.  He'd been lucky so far.  He wondered how much luckier he could be.

While Harry fought for the safety of the wizard world, Abby struggled to remain alive.  Raphael had struck her with the Cruciatus Curse so many times she could barely move.  Her body was so crippled with pain that she couldn't manage to open her eyes to look on her attacker.  She was drenched with a fevered sweat, and she now lay huddled on the ground, involuntarily hugging her knees up to her chest.  The entire length of her body was trembling in a pool consisting of a mix of her own blood and sweat and the rain-soaked ground.  Her robes were tattered where she'd been struck.  The skin that showed through these tatters was streaked with dirt and mud.

Abby had never known pain like this.  It evaded all words, and she found herself whimpering broken-spiritedly.  She could no longer even beg Raphael to stop.  Three times she had slipped into unconsciousness in the past hour.  She feared the lethal blackness that once again returned to the edges of her sight.  If she passed out again, she was afraid she'd never consciousness.  She'd always known Phoenixes were prepared to fight to their death, but it had never before been this real.  Suddenly she didn't want to die, not if it was as agonizing as this.  Is this what her father faced every day when he went to work?  How had he been able to do this all these years?  Sleep began to make its fatal descent upon her and she closed her eyes, welcoming the reprieve in the pain.

Harry held up his wand with the intention of striking at Voldemort once more when he heard the whimper.  Abby's near-lifeless body was curled up at the feet of the Death Eater, who was in the process of again cursing her with more pain than she could ever imagine.  A thought dawned suddenly on him.  _Raphael can't kill her with the Killing Curse, but can he use the Cruciatus Curse on her until she dies?  _He couldn't stand it anymore.  This was the debate that had been argued in his house since the attack on Abby when she was an infant: 

The Order of the Phoenix and all that is good in the wizard world, or his family?

As he saw the angry green light swallow up his daughter in agony, he knew instantly what his choice would be.  He wasn't sure if the cage was weak enough to break through yet, but he wasn't thinking either.  All he knew was that he had to stop Raphael before he took away the most precious gift in Harry's life.

"You fiend," he growled at Voldemort.  Then, without another thought, he lunged all his weight at the wall of the cage.  It remained sturdy and intact, and Harry was thrown back into the dueling circle he and Voldemort had created.  As he lay defeated on the ground, he heard Abby's sharp scream pierce the night.  Her body was limp on the ground.  Raphael had killed her.

A single tear slipped out of the corner of his eye, the first tear he'd shed in many a year.  Lord Voldemort had finally won.

***Over?  Not quite***               


	26. The final defeat

            What did he have to live for now, really?  It was clear he wasn't getting out of this duel alive.  He'd now lost both his parents and his daughter to the Dark Arts.  And more than likely, his wife would be next.  Harry was going to die and he knew it full well.  Deeply wounded by the lost, he tossed his wand to one side of the cage and looked at Voldemort with pain-filled eyes.  He had nothing left to lose now.  Voldemort had finally regained power.  Harry could only pray that Dumbledore would continue the fight despite Harry's passing.

            "You want me, Voldemort?" he said in a shaky voice.  "I'm right here."  Voldemort lifted his wand, triumph glowing in his monstrous red eyes, and pointed it at Harry's middle.  Harry took a deep breath, wondering if this was how his father had felt before he'd died.  _No, he'd died defending Mum and me.  I've already lost everything.  _For the hundredth time that night, the deep rumble of Voldemort's voice filled the air with its deafening cry of, "_Avada Kedavra!_"

            What both wizards failed to notice was that Harry's wand had slipped beneath a weak section of the cage.  It had rolled right over to Abby and collided with her open hand.  The curse that had held Raphael in the power of Voldemort since the Potters' escape here seemed to break the instant he placed that final curse on Abby's weakened body.  He'd dropped his own wand, muttering the same words again and again: "Great Merlin, what have I done?  What have I done?"  He took no notice of the two wizards dueling a short distance away.  When he saw Harry's wand come to Abby, he placed it in the young girl's hand and closed her fingers around it.  He bent to his knees and gently kissed her hand.  "Your father is going to die here," he told the unresponsive body.  "I know he is."  With fresh tears dripping down his cheeks, he looked to the sky and said, "Father and daughter, united by love, divided by hatred."

            The wand that Abby clutched seemed to glow.  The color was impossible to describe.  It seemed a mix of deep scarlet and gold, but there was a shimmer of silver and a bit of green as well.  In fact, it was every House color of Hogwarts.  Harry's wand had never produced that color before.  Raphael watched in quiet awe as the light covered Abby like a misty fog.  This was clearly a magic that hadn't been worked for years; else he would have seen it before.  But it was impossible.  No spell could bring back the dead.  That was a general knowledge given to all wizards at birth.  And yet here she was, her chest beginning to rise and fall again in its rhythmic pattern.  

            Then Abby, Raphael reasoned, wasn't really dead after all.  But then he noticed the sparkling piece of silver fastened protectively around her neck.  His necklace, the Locket of Pitié!  It had worked!  Why hadn't the 16-year-old Abby he'd fallen in love with told him about this incident?  It was then he realized he was watching the work of a very powerful magic, a sort of magic that must have dated back to the times of the great sorcerer Merlin.  He'd murdered the daughter of Harry Potter, but he'd also been able to revive her.  There was no way such a thing could ever be duplicated, and he continued to watch in silenced amazement.

            Abby's eyes fluttered open, and she groaned as she struggled to sit up.  Raphael immediately thrust a hand behind her to help her up.  She coughed a couple times.  Out of the corner of her eye she saw Voldemort raising his wand.  She saw the look of disheartened defeat on her father's face.  She didn't notice that the one who had been torturing her all this time was helping her to sit up, or that she'd been tossed into an inky blackness for a few minutes.  At that moment, the only thing her mind could register was that Harry, the boy who had been her saving grace during her first few months at Hogwarts, was giving himself up to die.  She scrambled to her feet, weak though they were, and raced toward the mysterious cage of which she knew so little.

            "Dad!" she screamed, pummeling herself straight into the meshed web of spells, charms, and curses.  It had not deteriorated enough to allow such a break-through, but she somehow managed it and was able to successfully shove both her father and herself out of the way.  She paid no mind to the eerie, iridescent light that shrouded her and allowed her to push through the phoenix web as though it were water.  The Killing Curse bounced off the walls at least a dozen times before hitting Voldemort's wand.  It was a perfect hit.

            Voldemort watched in horror as his own curse melted his wand, which dripped to a puddle on the ground.  The only recognizable part of the wand was the phoenix feather that had existed in its core.  Even that, too, began to dissolve into the magical liquid that had once committed more murders than the Ministry of Magic could count.  Voldemort cried out in frustration at this.  This was a magic he had never yet seen, and he vainly tried to gather the liquid mess into his hands.  The moment the raw ingredients touched his hands, they began to eat at his murderous skin.  He screamed in agony as the pain he'd inflicted on each of his victims traveled up his body a thousand-fold.  It crept into his skin and dissolved his figure into the same liquid as his wand now was.

            Harry had been wrong.  Lord Voldemort hadn't won.  The Dark Lord had, at last, met his end at the hands of the most powerful wizarding family to emerge since the Merlin family of years past.

            Neither Harry nor Abby paid much attention to the final battle cries of Voldemort.  Both were huddled on the ground where they'd finally stopped rolling.  Abby's plunge had hurtled the both of them a good distance away from the phoenix cage, and they lie panting heavily on the slick grass.  Harry was lying flat against the ground, his daughter's body curled up in his arms as she sobbed into his shirt.  She was only 12 years old after all, and had never experienced anything as traumatic as this.  Most grown wizards would have been weeping at this point as well, so Harry said nothing and simply tried to comfort her.

            "Abby Mae, I thought you were dead," he whispered, feeling his own tears of sorrow-induced relief fill his eyes.  "You gave me such a scare.  I was so sure I'd lost you."

            "Dad, I never knew!" she cried hoarsely.  "I knew you fought against the Dark wizards, but I never knew it was so hard.  I never knew you went through so much pain and hurt.  And…and Dad?"  Harry continued to hold his daughter with trembling hands, so relieved was he that she had lived through the whole ordeal.  No wizard he knew had ever faced Voldemort head-on and lived to tell the tale, none save for himself and Dumbledore.  He'd never wanted her to go through this, but now that she had he'd never been so proud.

            "I'm right here, Abby."

            "I love you, Dad."  Harry felt a smile tug at the corners of his mouth.  As he stared up at the stars ahead, the sky blurred by his teary vision, he thanked every power he knew for bringing his sweet baby girl into his life and keeping her there.  He ran his hands soothingly through her hair, trying to reassure her that he was there and wasn't planning on leaving.  She again took up sobbing heavily into his robes, and he allowed her to because it brought him an odd sense of reassurance.  It was a relief to know that she was alive and was still _able _to cry.

            "I love you too, Abigail.  And I promise none of this will ever happen again.  You were very brave tonight.  I wouldn't have expected such thoughtless bravery from a greater wizard.  And you know, when we get home, I promise to let you have more of a say in the rules I make.  You and your mother both."

            Abby laughed through her tears.  That certainly was the last thing on her mind.  All of this had been the cruelest trial on her, but she'd survived and she'd made her father proud.  _Maybe, _she thought as she lunged into thicker cries, _maybe I _can _carry the Potter name, after all._

~

***Oh, come on now – you didn't really expect the bad guy to win this one, did you?  Thank you all for your fantastic reviews; it's good to know I have an audience!  My next chapter is an epilogue, so please don't think it ends here.  But thank you for hanging around this long, it's been a wild ride but a very enjoyable one***   


	27. Epilogue

            Abby's first year at Hogwarts came and went.  After the final defeat of Lord Voldemort she'd spent a week at home, followed by another two weeks in the Hospital Wing at Hogwarts under the careful eye of Madam Pomfrey.  While at home, she had many more visitors than she'd ever expected.  Professor Granger took the first train out of Hogsmeade that Saturday, Lily and Paul following not far behind.  Headmaster Dumbledore was on that train as well, and even the sinister-appearing Professor Snape came to give his well wishes.  ***that's for you, Andria!***  Dumbledore's eyes were visibly moist beneath his half-moon spectacles when he approached Abby.

            "Very well done, young Miss Potter, " he said, sounding as usual more her grandfather than her headmaster.  "I would never have expected such courage from someone so young.  You have proven yourself well.  Take all the time you need away from school.  Heaven knows you've earned it."

            But Abby didn't want to spend any more time away from school.  All her friends were there, and her studies were the only things keeping her sane.  During the first few months she had constant nightmares about the events that had passed.  When she awoke in the middle of the night, though, all she had to do was tiptoe into the boys' dormitory to be comforted by her childhood friend Paul.  No one ever said a word about it, and in time she was able to spend entire nights sleeping in her own dormitory.  Nonetheless, there was always that sense of comfort in being with someone you've known since you were born.  With all the people who congratulated her, though, the one person she longed most to see never came.  Raphael had disappeared that night, and he'd never returned for her to give her gratitude.  After all, it was he who had saved both her life and her father's.  Yet he never came back to receive any sort of thank you.

            Her classes came and her classes went.  Before she knew it, the End-of-Year Feast was over and it was time for the Awards Ceremony.  Nearly all the wizarding world had agreed on this, and it was the Order of the Phoenix that arranged the final details.  With the Dark Lord finally gone for good, the magic world at last had reason to celebrate as they had not celebrated for 34 years.  The Awards Ceremony took place at Hogwarts' Great Hall, easily the best place to fit all the most important wizards around the world.  Harry met someone he had not seen in many years: his old competitor from the Tri-Wizard Tournament when he was 14, Fleur Delacour.  She had apparently grown to become Headmistress at Beauxbatons Academy, but she had not lost her vela flair.  When she'd given Ron Weasley a familiar kiss on the cheek, his cheeks flushed to match the brilliant red of his hair.

            The Order of the Phoenix took up the staff table, while all the wizards (including those to be awarded) sat at tables arranged at the sides of the room.  The only room that remained in the center was an aisle leading to the staff table, an aisle which was carpeted with all the colors of Hogwarts.  Abby took pride in seeing the Gryffindor lion beside the Slytherin serpent.  It reminded her of Raphael.  _I wish Raph were here.  This is something he would love to see.  _She hurried back to her table, covering her eyes with her hands so no one would see the tears.

            Dumbledore, Head of the Order, stood at the head of the aisle.  Immediately the chinking of silverware and the soft din of voices faded away.  He cleared his throat importantly.  "Ladies and gentlemen, it is my great honor to announce that the Dark Lord Voldemort, formerly known as Tom Marvolo Riddle, has at last been defeated."

            An enormous roar of thrill and excitement threatened to burst the walls of the castle.  He allowed this to carry on for a moment, nodding his head and smiling with pride.  Abby thought she caught a shimmer in his eyes, but then again, it might have been the way the light hit them.  He held up his hand for quiet, and the roar gradually died down again.

            "Yes, yes, we have much to celebrate!  Now that the Death Eaters are in their proper places, it is time to present our prestigious Awards of the Order of Merlin to those responsible for this battle and for this victory.

            "First, I would like to invite Mr. Harry Potter to the table.  Without him, we may never have had the daring to fight this war.  Mr. Potter has been defending our world since he was but a small child, and through the face of great loss his courage never wavered.  He has put everything on the line for us.  Many times he has risked his own life that another may be saved.  And it is because of him that we are able to celebrate as we do this evening.  Sorcerers and sorceresses, I would like to present the Order of Merlin, First Class, to Mr. Harry James Potter."

            Harry's cheeks had gone as crimson as his robes.  November gently kissed his lips before he stood to accept his award.  The room had once again erupted, this time with applause loud enough to wake the Hogwarts ghosts.  November got to her feet and pounded her hands together.  Abby, who sat beside her, followed suit, along with Lily, Hannah, the Weasleys, Paul, and the Finnigans.  The Longbottoms were next to rise, followed by all the Hogwarts professors.  Abby heard a very loud rumble that resembled, "Way ter go, Harry!  I always knew yeh'd be great someday."  By the time Harry had ascended the three or four steps up to the table, everyone in the room was on their feet, cheering as loudly as possible.  Abby could even se the candles overhead waver slightly from the noise of it all.  Dumbledore placed a scarlet-and-gold ribbon around Harry's neck, to which was attached a star-shaped medallion of gold.  Abby couldn't remember ever having felt so proud.  

            He returned to his seat quickly, and it took some time for the noise to lower enough for Dumbledore to speak again.  But speak his did, and when he did Abby was suddenly fascinated with her dinner plate.  "Our next award, if I may continue, goes to a girl who is possibly too young to realize the consequence of her actions.  Then again, Miss Abby Potter is no ordinary 12-year-old girl.  She has been taken by the hands of Voldemort himself and fought for us, refusing to give in despite the odds.  She's faced taunting and teasing for everything from her name to the side that fights against the Dark Arts.  She has shown courage above and beyond any that a grown witch would have had.  Abby is an extraordinarily brilliant student with a good, strong head on her shoulders.  No one should have had to experience the ordeal she experienced, but like her father her courage never wavered.  That is why it is my great pleasure to award the Order of Merlin, First Class to the youngest recipient in wizarding history, Miss Abigail Mae Potter."

            Shy, soft-spoken Abby got her feet, and almost instantly she was greeted with the same sort of accolade that her father had just been seated to.  He and her mother smiled proudly at her, her mother nudging her gently to accept her award.  Her feet had suddenly gone cold, and all the praise in the background seemed distant.  _Not me, _she thought as she stepped slowly up to the staff table.  _All this can't possibly be for me.  _She nodded at the familiar faces on the ends of the aisle, particularly Professors Granger and Flitwick, her two favorite teachers through her year at Hogwarts.  There was even one elderly witch wearing staff robes that Abby didn't recognize.  Her robes were a silky emerald green, and she wore her hair in a bun at the nape of her neck, almost as Professor Granger did.  Her cheeks were dripping with tears of pride and Abby felt obliged to smile at her, though she had never seen the woman before.  More than likely she was simply an old friend of her father's.  It seemed everyone else was.

            Abby lifted the front of her robes slightly so as not to filth the hems in dragging them up the steps.  She smiled at Dumbledore, the back of her ears brilliantly red and her scar a deeper black than ever.  No more, however, would it burn green.  She took comfort in this.  Dumbledore nodded at her, and she bowed her head and lowered her body to receive the award.  He placed the ribbon carefully around her neck, giving her a moment to catch the colors it had been made with.  Like her father's, there was a strip of red going down the middle…but the edges, rather than trimmed with gold, were trimmed with silver.  She looked to Dumbledore for an explanation.

            "I remember Raphael Demore's parents at Hogwarts.  They were not Dark wizards, and neither was he.  You were quite possibly the only one able to see that.  Ironically, my dear, it is our differences that make us so similar."  With these words of sage advice, he gently kissed her cheek as she rose again to her feet.  Her heart felt full at this recognition.  She never believed Raphael belonged in Slytherin, and his actions that night had proved it.  She tried to put the thought out of her mind.  Thinking about Raphael was too painful.

            Just as she had risen, the giant oak doors of the Great Hall were swung open loudly.  Abby wheeled around to see what had caused the intrusion, as did the rest of the Hall.  An uneasy quiet descended upon the celebration.  The one who had forced the doors open stood at the entrance, his black robes a dark contrast to the jubilant colors worn by the other witches and wizards.  He looked familiar, though Abby couldn't quite place it.  He had to be just slightly younger than her father, his mid-20s at the youngest, with disheveled raven-black hair and sparkling blue eyes.  Every inch of him was covered in some sort of mud or dirt or other filth, bringing the darkness of his robes down a shade or two.  His hands and legs were bleeding through the cloth, and he had a dark red necklace of blood across the base of his neck.  This, luckily enough, had dried, and he wasn't in any mortal danger.  But it did frighten those who had a good look at him enough to make them gasp.  He opened his mouth, and his voice was quivering.  Abby recognized it immediately.

            "Congratulations, Abby.  You've finally found your own place in the sun."

            "Raphael!" she squealed with delight.  It was her beloved friend, the Age Charm lifted to make visible his true age.  But that didn't matter to her.  When she saw him, she saw the young boy she'd shared that moment outside the Dark Forest with, the one she'd wondered if she'd get her first kiss from.  She paused only a moment before tumbling down the stairs and bolting toward him.  The eyes of the rest of the Hall followed her, but they were again just a distant memory.  She tossed her arms around him, and the momentum carried the both of them in a wide, off-center circle.  He laughed, and broken though his voice was, she knew he was the Raphael she'd come to adore.

            "Raph, you never gave me the chance to thank you," she said once they'd stopped spinning.  He had his arms placed firmly around her waist, and she pressed the palms of her hands against his cheeks.  "That night…the night Voldemort fell…you saved my life.  If it wasn't for you, me and my dad would both be dead.  And you left before I could say thank you."

            "You don't remember, do you?" he whispered.  "I killed you, Abby.  I let hate consume my heart, and Voldemort came and took control of that.  That's why it was so easy for him to put me under the Imperius Curse."

            Abby was slightly taken aback by this.  She'd dreamed of this moment for months.  She'd had it planned exactly, and this was not what Raphael was supposed to say.  "But-but you broke it.  You broke the Curse."  At this Raphael gave a weary smile.  It was clear he had just gone through something terrible, and it broke Abby's heart to see him this way.

            "If hate makes us subject to the Curse, then love is the only thing that can break it.  I fell in love with you, and that love has never done anything but gain strength.  But as a Death Eater, I took as many lives as I have just saved.  I'm even with the Order of the Phoenix now, though the Minister of Magic doesn't quite see it that way.  I can't stay.  I must return to Azkaban, where they've placed all the other Death Eaters."

            Abby shook her head stubbornly, struggling, for the hundredth time that night, not to cry.  She bit her bottom lip and felt her heart plummet like a rock to the bottom of her soul.  What was he saying?  "No," she said softly.  "No, you can't.  He can't make you.  You're not a Death Eater anymore!  The Order, they want to award you an Order of Merlin, Second Class, for saving my life.  Please, you must stay.  I need you.  I…I love you."  She could hardly believe the words that left her own lips.  But they were true, and she didn't regret saying a single one.  Raphael gave a gentle chuckle.

            "Ah, Miss Abby, sometimes I forget just how young you really are.  It doesn't matter that I'm no longer joined with the Dark Arts.  I have taken life, and for that I must be punished.  But even afterward, I cannot meet with you again, and you must not look for me.  After the ceremony, you will have a Memory Charm placed on you.  Little trace of me will remain in your memory.  No, please don't argue.  Remember what I told you?  When I was younger I visited with your future self.  You had never seen me before, and things must stay that way.  It is against wizard law to change time, and the consequences of returning to you now could be disastrous.  No, you must not know about me.  Perhaps, after your 16 years have passed and I am gone, I will come back to you.  I don't know.  But this is how it has to be.  You've done the world a great thing by eliminating the Dark Lord.  I'm terribly proud.  And don't forget – you may not have me, but you'll have my necklace.  Your memories of my saving you at infancy and the story will be etched forever in your mind."

            Raphael smiled at her again and placed a soft, sweet kiss on the cheek Dumbledore had kissed just moments ago.  She hated to let him go, but he was too strong for her.  He had released himself from her grasp and was now walking, with a slight limp in his right leg, back out through the doors of the Great Hall. She watched him go, her heart breaking with every step.  Saving the wizarding world meant nothing to her if she had nothing to fight for.

            She sighed.  He was right, much as she hated to admit it.  Placing the Memory Charm on her was the only right thing to do.  As she watched him walk out of her life, she toyed listlessly with the locket around her neck.  She slid her thumb into the clasp and carefully unlatched it, looking to the portraits for some comfort as she had done all these many years.  What she saw, however, made her gasp out loud.  Both pictures of her parents were gone.  In place of her mother's picture was a photo, a wizard photo, of Raphael as the 11-year-old boy she remembered.  He was winking at her and pointing toward the other half of the locket.  There was no picture on this side.  Instead, in his familiar scrawl, he had written the words, "I love you, Abby Mae Potter."  She smiled at the secret, closing the locket again.

            "I love you, too," she murmured, in a voice so soft no one else could possibly hear it.  "I love you, too."

~

            In the deep, dark cells of Azkaban, far removed from the other repenting prisoners, a shadow was tapping her fingers anxiously against the bars that enclosed her.  The only part of her that was visible was the broad, evil grin she wore.  Her voice came as a hiss that no man, woman or snake could understand.

            "They may have destroyed you, Father, but I will avenge your death.  I will be sure the Potters know the true cruelty that resides in the blood of the Riddles." 

~*~

            *to Mrs. Elham Weasley, who has been begging me since Day 1 to make this an Abby-Raphael story*

**_As you can see, this is the end of The Potter Name.  As you've also gathered, there's going to be a sequel.  The sequel is going to be Abby-Raphael based and will take place sometime in their 6th or 7th year.  However – and this is where I need your help – I've been toying with the idea of writing a Harry-November story from their time at Hogwarts.  Whichever I choose to do, it's going to be a romance.  And since I can only write two stories at a time and The Phoenix Chronicles are my priority, I can only write one of these HP stories at a time.  So my question to you is, which should I do?  I'll end up doing both, rest assure, but which should I do first?_**

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**_Thanks for your input, you're a wonderful audience, terrific people, and excellent writers.  You're all inspirations to me.  _**

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**_And I look forward to seeing you again soon!_**


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